


Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass

by pinkbagels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkbagels/pseuds/pinkbagels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel.  So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission.  Big mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

hearts are made of broken glass--chapter one

He stood beneath the dim streetlamp, a thin veneer of mist collecting at his feet. The weather provided a strange observation. He was becoming increasingly aware that most of these encounters occured during specific conditions. Damp nights, poor lighting and an abandoned cross-section of road were all it took to create the perfect condition to purchase a human soul. Granted, there was a quality control issue that was in direct correlation to this, for the majority of sellers were inebriated half-wits, barely conscious of their own existance, let alone worth. It was no wonder Hell was filling up with morons, as Crowley kept complaining. The poorly lit crossroads were usually in the direct line of a nearby bar, and if even there was a ritual involved, a human being's wish to sell their soul always started as a drunken comment bantered among equally drunken friends.

Such as this young man standing before him, his eyes bloodshot, his shoulder length hair leaving his scalp in greasy, tangled strips. Henry Finkel couldn't be any more than twenty, and already he had sealed his fate, offering up his soul for the prescribed ten years of promised bliss--which in this case involved a case of beer and employment with a set of musicians called The Bay City Rollers. 

"Seriously, man? I get to be their roadie?"

He didn't want to do this. First, because the thought of taking the soul went against everything he once stood for, and second because the youth was so insanely stupid. This alone predicted Henry's future as one of Crowley's CEOs, and again, the moron issue would arise, giving Crowley ample space to whine and complain ad nauseum over the lack of quality merchandise.

"You really should reconsider."

"No way, man! This is The Bay City Rollers we're talking about!" Henry's eyes were bright with roadmap excitement. "Those guys are set to be *legends*!"

He took in the young man's wilfull ignorance, his selfish adoration and, most of all, his utter, vapid misunderstanding of popular media culture. He gestured to him to get it over with, and Henry pounced on his lips, leaving the vile remnant of hot dogs and misspent dreams on his tongue. As he broke away, a tour bus drove past, stopping a few feet away from the crossroads. The passenger door opened, and the bus driver shouted out to the young man, "Hey kid? Wanna make a few bucks this summer?"

There were curtains on the bus, gaudy Scottish-styled tartans printed on orange polyester. None of the patterns had a proper clan attached to them. Yet another thing to piss Crowley off. This soul was destined to suffer.

"S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y...Night!" the kid yelled out a back bus window, waving goodbye to the sucker who bought his stupid soul. He remained beneath the dim streetlamp, watching as the bus disappeared into the mist. He shook his head, not understanding the purpose of spelling out a day of the week. Why not spell out the whole song if it was meant for learning English phonetics?

He took out his notebook and crossed out Henry Finkel's name. Three more to go and he would be permitted to go back to his grey, uncomfortable cell, where he could collapse into a dark corner and properly atone for the wrongs he had done. Unless, of course, Crowley called him up for yet another gin and tonic bitch session over his latest demon board meeting. Perhaps it was part of his penance to be such a good listener, but he couldn't help but feel guilty over the lack of real suffering he was owed. Or, the more he thought on it, this could be a rather clever ploy of Crowley's, lulling him into this sense of easy, bored comfort before hitting him broadside with a horrific torture session that Raphael himself couldn't devise.

Of course, that was ridiculous, because no one was better at torture than angels. Crowley knew this, he was sure. Which was why the King of Hell had placed him in this emotional queue line, letting him sit in the dark to brood alone, giv ing him menial tasks that were created solely to ease Crowley's own boredom. Tasks like this one.

He sighed, glancing at the next name. 

The fact that it was buried between seven souls was not lost on him. The name leapt out from the page, taunting him. Fergus McLeod, of rural seventeenth century Scotland. A strange measure of trust was implied, especially considering how quickly he had reneged on his deal with Crowley over the souls of purgatory. An unhappy business all around, one could say.

Castiel pocketed his notebook, and marched into the mist. He had wanted to save this one for last, but curiousity got the best of him. What game was Crowley playing now, and how far was he willing to take it with his own soul at stake? Did he think Castiel was going to redeem him? 

Probably.

Balls, as Bobby Singer would say.

///

Crowley impatiently checked his watch, noting that it was exactly five hours since he had sent Castiel on his first ever mission as a Hell employee. Most crossroad demons would have clocked in their progress reports by now (rife with spelling mistakes and netspeak. 'got a weenchister ran out of gas omfg dean runninn liek a looozer lolol ow he gut me') but Castiel was a new recruit so he was willing to let it slide just this once.

He hoped the fact Castiel was still stubbornly an angel didn't get in the way, what with him getting all empathetic and moral or some such rot. After the Leviathan debacle had finally been laid to rest, along with Castiel himself, all had returned to the same old, same old. Demons, Winchesters, blood, gore. A simple life, one he rather enjoyed. So, it was quite a nasty surprise for Crowley to find a remorseful, existential angel brooding in one of his dungeon cells. Castiel had decked it out in gloomy shadows and unpleasant scents, a rank decaying stench emanating from the brickwork in direct contrast to Crowley's usual spotless cleaning regimen. Crowley's Hell had a lingering PineSol scent, not rotted carcass innards. Castiel was opting for his own personal sensory Hell, customized himself and completely free of Crowley's subtle touch. Very disrespectful. 

It irked him, that this miserable, backstabbing, fallen little sparrow would dare to think he would find sanctuary in Hell. He had resisted the idea when Castiel parked himself in the cell four months ago, but the angel simply refused to leave and all attempts to evict him proved fruitless. Crowley learned early on that threats of torture and emotional blackmail only served to make Castiel pleased with his choice of atonement. 

He had defnitely proved a challenge. Crowley wasn't used to getting beings with a conscience slumming in his basement. It took some digging, and he eventually discovered that what bothered the angel most wasn't suffering so much as the lack of it, and it was this tactic Crowley opted to fully exploit.

So, gone were the rank smells and dark corners, gone were the bars of the cell and the chains, unlocked, that never held the angel captive. Crowley forced Castiel to do menial tasks around his office, such as making coffee or filing incident reports, and while the angel was thus engaged he purged Castiel's living space of all dreary misery and replaced it with a comfortable couch, a roaring fireplace, a well stocked wine bar and a 50" inch plasma TV that could be tuned into any Winchester channel his Heavenly little heart desired. His cell bars were replaced with a simple yet elegant Victorian manor house oak door. There was an adjoining mailbox on the wall beside it with the word 'Thursday' written across it in black letters.

Castiel would gradually undo this effort, rendering his cell back to the dank pit he longed for it to be, but Crowley always managed to clean it up back to high functioning glory by the first of every month. An inconvenience at times, but strangely satisfying, especially as he always did his best to outdo his last design. He found it kept his artful eye sharp.

His latest idea was outright suburbia, complete with open concept kitchen and a bedroom or two upstairs. It was a frivolous waste of space since neither demons nor angels slept, but he hoped to gain a certain satisfaction out of Castiel's pained expression when faced with this most basic piece of human normalcy: A proud, happy home painted in soft pastels and carefully colour coded furnishings. The front door could even have an alternate entrance, one right smack back onto Earth, in a location where lawns were perfect, and humans smiled and waved at one another to hide the pride and envy of loathing gossip bred between them.

Of course, even in happy surroundings a person can still suffer, and the long stretches of time that Castiel gave to this activity had to be minimalized. Giving him employment was a necessity. Since he wasn't a demon and thus not the usual dim lightbulb Crowley was used to dealing with, he had to give him work that was challenging enough to keep him occupied without being rewarding. 

Thus, when the little issue of Balthazar's foray into time travel and mucking with the Titanic caused some residual contractural paradoxes, Castiel was perfect for the job. Not only could he be trusted to be discreet, he would also be efficient, morally conflicted over his role and, most importantly, bored.

The conversation that morning had been amicable, if not strained. Castiel's cell had been drawn into its customary grey hue (it was the end of the month), and the angel was suffering in the dark corner, putrescence strewn about him as he wallowed in his misery.

Crowley kicked open the cell door. brandishing the one act of comforting torment Castiel could never resist.

"Coffee," Crowley said, handing him one of the matching steaming cups. "No sugar. One cream."

"Thank you," Castiel said, taking it from him. 

Crowley snatched a comfortable chair from the early Victorian period and sat down before Castiel, his own coffee carefully poised on its armrest. "You don't belong here."

"I must atone for what I have done." 

"Having angels in my Hell is bad for business." Crowley sipped at his coffee and made a face. Black, but a little too heavy on the stevia. He was going to have to hex that smug Starbucks barista. "You are making my demon minions nervous and your tears are putting holes in my good carpet. I have said this more often than I can count, and I'm tired of reminding you. You are not a prisoner here. You have not been banished from Earth, though some may wish you were, nor are you struck from Heaven, though most of your brethren want to smite you. Which raises only one good question in my mind: Why am I the sucker stuck with you?"

Castiel glared at him with hooded eyes ringed in black, betraying the vast depths of his pain. Crowley felt a well of anger rise within him. Damn angel, that sealed it, Castiel was getting a hot tub, with a built-in stereo. 'Go ahead and try to suffer with that on your back porch,' Crowley thought. 'There's no way you are suffering for free on *my* time.'

"You can't kick me out of Hell," Castiel flatly informed him. "If I choose to be here, that is my own perogative."

"Oh no, there are no squatter's rights here," Crowley shot back. "As above, so below, my feathered friend. Everyone here has a job to do, and since you've decided to park your ass here, you're going to have to follow my one golden rule." Crowley nearly spilled his coffee as he shouted at a stone faced Castiel. "No one in Hell is on the dole!"

Castiel raised a brow, his expression impassive. "Just what kind of job are you talking about?"

"A clean-up operation, one that requires a slight amount of intelligence. Right up your alley, I should think, not so demeaning as cleaning toilets on the fourth level, but pretty close." Crowley took out a manilla folder he had tucked into his suit and handed it to Castiel. "Seems your friend Balthazar's meddling with the Titanic timeline has still left some residual paradoxes that need scrubbing out. Those are contracts that are to be filled, not many, just seven. They are to happen exactly as outlined in the descriptions, otherwise some pieces of this Earth's history may not fall into place." He gave Castiel's doubtful expression a careful study before continuing. "You wouldn't want your Winchesters to never be born, now would you? Mind you, I have to wonder at that. Maybe I should allow you some creative license with the canon material."

"I am not one of your demons. I will not negotiate contracts for human souls."

The pissy way he said this made Crowley's black heart sing. Pride going before the fall and all that, it seems the angel wasn't learning much of a lesson with his brooding. "I'm afraid, darling, that you have no choice. If you want to stay here, you're going to have to pull your weight, like everyone else. I'm not operating some masochistic spa here, Hell is a thriving business. Besides," Crowley smiled as Castiel visibly enjoyed his morning coffee, "this assignment is of great significance to me. As an upstairs member, I'm sure you understand that I would appreciate the personal touch that only you can afford."

Castiel raised a brow as he sipped his coffee. The putrescence stench had disappeared. Cinnamon. Won the little sparrow over every time.

"How so?" Castiel asked.

Crowley opted to remain cryptic. "I'm not at full liberty to say. You never know which walls might be listening in." 

That had been morning, and naturally Castiel agreed, curiousity being one of his great weaknesses. Crowley checked his watch again, a feeling of anxious anticipation coursing over him. He was still here, he was still king, so any worry that the deal had fallen through for his own soul should have been banished. He still had on his pressed, expensive suit, excellently tailored, he still had his powers and fiercely ambitious nature. Nothing had changed, not drastically.

Still, there was an odd feeling welling within him, that something was off. Like a button missed on a shirt. Something just wasn't fitting properly.

He created a door in Castiel's cell and used it to enter a door in his torture lab, the dungeon sparkling clean and ready for use. Might as well get some work done while he was waiting. Purgatory might not be the aim this time, but making sure souls properly suffered with maximum efficiency was an ongoing work in progress.

A suburban house, that's what Castiel was getting. If he finished early he might be able to get a fully functioning kitchen in there before five-thirty. Perhaps it was a bit much, giving him seven souls, along with his own, to harvest, especially since Castiel had no such experience. He was bound to make some errors. The day was no doubt stretching before the angel in a cloud of torment, desperate souls clamouring over him in want, and the angel forced to acquiesce instead of hammering down judgement. Castiel was going to be a misery when he finally came home. 'Poor thing,' Crowley thought. 'Perhaps I should cook him dinner.'

"Crowley..."

He turned to see Castiel standing behind him, looking more rumpled and miserable than usual. So far so good. However, Castiel's trenchcoat was caked in black muck and thick rivulets of blood. His hands dripped red droplets onto the stone floor of the lab. At his feet was a large, burlap sack, its unknown contents twitching in agonized, tortured jerks.

No, Crowley did not like the look of that angel's ice-fire blue gaze, not at all. It was small to start, that little nag of fear that had clutched at him earlier, but it grew the longer Castiel stood in front of him, eyes wild with fierce sanctimonious victory. 'He's done something stupid,' the demon thought, a fact confirmed by the proud smile Castiel bestowed upon him.

"I've completed my tasks."

"Lovely," Crowley cautiously replied. He gave an uneasy nod to the twisting burlap sack. "What's that?"

Castiel stepped into Crowley's personal space. The air was downright crackling with his aura, the frightening intensity of the angel's emotion sending a shiver of terror down Crowley's spine.

"A bonus," Castiel said.


	2. Chapter 2

hearts are made of broken glass--chapter two

Seventeenth century Scotland was, as he had expected--damp, dirty and full of clouded misery. Castiel checked his watch as he waited at the crossroads, knowing he was well behind schedule. Crowley had left him several texts demanding to know how he was getting on, and Castiel purposefully refused to answer them. It had been a ridiculous suggestion to make an angel work as a crossroads demon, let him deal with the usual efficient, celestial silence.

As suspected, there was an alehouse not far from where Castiel was standing, and from the sounds of revelry and cursing the hour was late and the fermented joy was flowing freely. He checked his watch again, impatient for this moment to simply pass. He had a lot of suffering backed up for himself, and this distraction had proved to be too interesting for him to properly focus on his misery. After the Bay City Roller roadie, he had finished up the other two in quick succession, with one young woman of Eastern European extraction wanting to be a cheerful nihilist (he wasn't quite sure he had accomplished this, but she seemed to be insufferably happy with the outcome), and a British musician who wanted the lyrics to the song that would make him a legend. Castiel had informed him that he wasn't terribly good with human poetry, and the musician had hung his head and walked away, muttering "Heaven knows, I'm miserable now."

He was now facing his last, and most important, assignment, and one that was strangely personal on Crowley's part. Though it was common knowledge what Crowley had sold his soul for, the circumstances remained murky even in the instructions Crowley had detailed out for him. 'Meet my handsome, refined, original self at a crossroads near Aberlour, in the northern tip of Scotland. It's a lovely place. Be sure to have a biscuit.' No mention at all of how Castiel was to accomplish extending Crowley's below the belt request by three inches, or the more reasonable question, which was 'Why would a rather smart creature such as Crowley make such a stupid demand?"

It seemed he was about to get his answer. A familiar figure weaved back and forth on the road, falling at intervals into the ditch, and picking himself up again as he managed to stagger towards the intersection. He sang a bawdy tune, rife with lyrics full of cursing. He was quite a mess, Castiel thought with distaste. Fergus McLeod sported a nasty black eye, a torn jacket and an overall scent that suggested he hadn't properly washed since the day he'd been born. He gave Castiel a crooked smile, a jug of ale sloshed at his lips as he spoke. His human form was missing two back teeth.

"Hello, kind stranger," Fergus said, by way of introduction. "Welcome, my lovely, to my little village. Sorry...no...welcome to my little village, my lovely..That's not right. Welcome little me lovely you village." He sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Oh hell, feck off."

He staggered past Castiel, and was stopped in mid stride by a couple of drunken locals, who each pitched a rock at him. "Go home, Fergus, you bastard lush ye!" one burly man shouted. "And pay up yer tab by tomorrow's eve, or you'll be getting a real proper beating next time, you drunken ale thief!"

The continued onward, leaving Fergus and Castiel alone at the crossroads. Mist curled between them muffling Fergus's cursing tune into uneven mumbling.

Castiel cocked his head to one side, confused. "Aren't you going to ask anything of me?"

Fergus drunkenly turned around, his eyes forcing Castiel into focus. He stood there for a few moments, taking every nuance of the stranger in, and seeming to suddenly realise what Castiel was really there for. "Yes," he said, narrowing his gaze.

Castiel readied himself for the request, preparing his mouth for the usual invasion after the terms had been dilineated. He was looking forward to getting this over with and ripping apart all the comforts Crowley no doubt had polluted his dank cell with. The plasma TV had proven rather useful, however, for going over replays of his relationship with the Winchesters, especially his moments with Dean, and the special bond they shared--which of course, he had irredeemably shattered. Such inspections left his being in tatters, his grief overwhelming and spilling out in acid tears that burned through the stones of Crowley's dungeon floor.

Yes, best to get back to despair.

"Who is your tailor?"

Castiel stared blankly at Fergus. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your tailor," Fergus said, and he was bold enough to actually touch the lapels of Castiel's trenchcoat, his fingers testing the stitching. "Bonnie bit of material, that. Lovely work. I like the cut of your jib, mate. That's real quality, there."

"Are you sure that's all you wanted to ask of me?"

Fergus paused in his inspection of Castiel's trenchcoat, his dark eyes locking onto the angel's blue depths with a strange, eager intensity. "Depends on what you are offering."

"Anything you desire," Castiel said, shrugging. He tried to back away from Fergus's grip on the lapels of his coat, but the Scottish tailor seemed oddly addicted to getting into Castiel's personal space, a point driven further as he leaned forward, forcing Castiel against the trunk of a nearby tree.

"Most men are fond of hens, but myself..." Fergus gave him a sleepy smile. "I'm partial to a nice, big, cock."

"I don't understand," Castiel said, frowning at the way Fergus pressed against him. "You want me to give you a chicken?"

"What I want from you," Fergus seductively whispered in his ear, "is three inches more than the usual."

"You will have to kiss me, first."

Fergus pressed his forehead against Castiel's, a strangely intimate gesture, the angel thought, especially with the way Fergus' fingers brushed, ever so lightly against the curve in his vessel's neck. Fergus, unlike the rest of the deals that had transpired that day, had no qualms at all about locking lips with an otherworldly being. He pressed them against Castiel's, a fiery hunger diving against Castiel's tongue that lingered far longer than the angel was anticipating. In fact, it was actually rather nice, if he cared to admit it, and he found himself sinking, just a little, into the deft skill of Fergus's mouth. How very strange...He would need to discuss this at length with Crowley later...He found himself reluctant to allow the embrace to end.

"That was not unpleasant," Castiel said, genuinely surprised.

Fergus gave him a small smile. And then, because this was a demonic meeting, and consequence demanded the act be ruined in some fashion, Fergus bent double and vomited into a puddle. This wasn't enough humiliation, however, because Fergus in his current state had no choice but to pass out in his sick and the muck, all pride utterly decimated. It was no wonder Crowley wanted to keep this quiet. In this deal, like many car accidents, disastrous oil spills and unwanted pregnancies, alcohol was an unfortunate deciding factor.

Fergus's fall had left a splatter of sick on the hem of Castiel's trenchcoat.

"Lovely," Castiel dourly observed.

///

He flew them both to the small, peatmoss roofed shack not far from the crossroads, with a stinking Fergus held aloft in his grip. A snap of his fingers cleaned the unfortunate human being up, though it did nothing to sober him. The deal had been sealed as per the usual terms, and yet Fergus seemed insistent on re-enacting the details, seeking out Castiel's lips with pleading desperation. Though the initial seal for the contract was, indeed, exceptional, the subsequent requests were nagging and needy, not to mention wholly unnecessary. Castiel shoved him off, and tossed him onto the stack of wool and straw that he assumed was the man's bed. Much to Castiel's chagrin, Fergus considered this a prelude to an amorous encounter, and drunkenly tried to paw his way into Castiel's favour.

"I like a man who takes control."

"I would prefer if you were unconscious."

Fergus frowned at this. "Can't see how that would be much fun." Then, as though the disturbing thoughts that followed somewhat sobered him, Fergus sat up on the edge of his makeshift bed, his mood significantly more cautious. His eyes were hooded in darkness, shadows playing on every worried crevice of his features. "You aren't with the Bishop, are you?" He whispered this, as though it could be considered sacrilige to even speak of it. "The Inquisitioner?"

"That is not my purpose."

Fergus breathed a sigh of relief, his sudden smile dispelling all darkness that had briefly overtaken him. "Oh, good." He reached for his jug of ale, and thought the better of it, placing it back onto the floor and shoving it to the foot of his bed. "Seeing as how you are my guest, it would be only right for me to offer you tea. You must be famished, traveller. My home is humble, but I'm sure I can scrounge up something."

Castiel gave the interiour a careful study, and was greeted with layers of neatly folded wools, carefully placed scraps and well organized sewing equipement on the far right of the tiny house, while the fireplace burned brightly within the side wall, a couple of cast iron cooking pots resting suitably beside it. Though it was only one room, the house gave off a sense of restraint and tidy respectability. Highly incongruous to the figure he had met at the crossroads, and yet strangely similar to the demon Fergus was set to become.

"You live alone," Castiel stated.

Fergus gave him a derisive snort. "I'm all the better for it. Had a wife, had a son. Neither of them remain."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"What loss? She ran off with the vicar and took the brat with her. The only time I ever saw him was when he requested I give him permission to join the church, one thing I damned bloody well wasn't going to do." He glanced at his front door, as though mindful that someone might be listening in. "Here, you seem an intelligent sort. I got something to show you."

He worked in stealth as he approached his fireplace, the flames lighting up his profile in eerie shadows. Some attempt at black magic was about to commence, Castiel thought with distaste. Yes, the demon in him was definitely showing through.

Fergus loosed a stone in his fireplace, revealing a small crevice within it. He pulled out a small booklet, the cover bound in elegant, etched leather. He didn't give it to Castiel, but bid him to take a look at it, the printed words too precious to leave his own hands. "I could be hung, or worse, for having this," he admitted. "If the Bishop only knew...Ignorant bastard, that he is, he would have me drawn and quartered on the spot."

Castiel read the title, a sense of profound confusion overtaking him. "This is not a text of the black arts," he said. "This is merely human in construction."

"Is it? I wouldn't know, I can't read a word of Italian." He pointed, eagerly, to one word that was repeated over and over. "Except for this one. Simplicio. It means simpleton. This fellow who wrote this, I was told he's referring to the church. Bloody brilliant. This thing near cost me everything I earned the past year, but it was worth it. See? Simplicio, simplicio, simplicio..." He frowned over the cryptic illustrations. "I got no clue what these are. Some sort of spell, I suppose."

"They are inked renditions of planets," Castiel informed him. "It is merely outlining a scientific theory. That the sun remains static, while the rest of the planets, including Earth, revolve around it."

Fergus scoffed at this. "Earth revolving around the sun. How ridiculous."

"The theory is correct."

Fergus faltered slightly at this, only to openly laugh. "You are very funny, you had me going there for a minute." He glanced back at the small book, and shyly closed it shut, wrapping the leather binding around it carefully. "I guess you can tell by now, I'm no fan of the church. Silly, really, spending all that money on something just for one word." His hands caressed the binding, and he looked, to Castiel, so strangely vulnerable and small in his small house, with his small amount of rebellion so secretively tucked away. "I was raised in the church, you see. The Bishop, he was forever reminding me that he had plucked me out of a Glasgow dung heap."

Curiousity got the best of Castiel. "This Bishop you speak of. He was as a father to you."

Fergus darkened at this. He quickly returned his precious book to its hiding place, the stone shoved in with more force than was necessary. "He's a powerful man, and powerful men do whatever the hell they want, to whoever the hell they want. They're monsters, the lot of them." Fergus's inner fury began to rise, his voice shouting into the still quiet of his home. " If I had my way, I'd make every one of those bastards suffer in the most unimaginable ways! Flayings and whippings, none of those are enough--Torment, real torment, that's what they'd get from me!"

Beads of sweat had formed on Fergus's brow. He forced himself to regain his polite composure, and turned back to Castiel, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I guess you should have been warned about my views on the matter, and I don't mean to offend. And don't go thinking you can go into town and start spitting off what I've told you to get me in trouble. I never did mention his Bastard Highness's name, now did I?"

"I take no offense," Castiel said, honest. He cocked his head to one side, studying the human being seated before the fire. "It's strange for me to say so, but I rather like you, Fergus McLeod. It's a shame you will not remain this way."

Fergus shrugged at this, not understanding. The mood between them lightened with Castiel's confession, and Fergus grabbed a basket off of his windowsill and offered it to Castiel. "Biscuit?" he said.

There was no time to react. Like a sudden gust of wind, the front door to his small cottage burst open, and two large, official looking men stormed in, brandishing swords, their blades drawn on either side of Fergus's neck.

"Fergus McLeod," one of them boomed into the small space. "You are charged with witchcraft, consorting with devils and being an unrepentant sodomite..."

"I know, I know, my prowess has preceded me, but this really is a bad time." Fergus stood up, the blades of the swords nicking his flesh. He gave his captors a flirting wink and nodded at Castiel. "I've already got company."

But his bravado was quickly deflated. Between the two goons, entered a tall, thin figure wearing a red robe. He cast an ominous, evil shadow over Fergus and Castiel, and though the man was clearly human, the angel had to admit there was a definite darkness about him, a viciousness that felt animalistic. Raw.

"I should have left you wallowing in shit," the Bishop said, shaking his head at his fallen protege. "I give you one simple thing to do and you screw it up. You are going to pay for this. With every bone in your pathetic body."


	3. Chapter 3

hearts are made of broken glass--chapter three

Castiel stood aloof from the drama unfolding before him, retreating behind the dimensional window he often employed when not wanting to be a part of events. Besides, his work here was done, he had given Fergus McLeod what he wanted, though he was strangely unconscious of it. Whatever cause and effect was determined from this moment forward was none of his concern. 

But still, there was that horrible, terrible part of his self awareness that always got in the way, and it nagged at him now, forcing him to linger just a little longer, to observe and mentally record all that was taking place. Curiousity. It didn't just kill cats, it was a fatal flaw of angels as well, especially one who had worked so closely with humans, learning their strengths and many weaknesses, and if he was honest, revelling in them both.

"What job?" Fergus asked, confused. 

The Bishop was nose to nose with him, and Castiel could see the closeness made Fergus highly uncomfortable, evident from the sweat at his temples, and his struggle to get free of his captors, who held him back with steel grips. "I gave you a red silk bag to bury," the Bishop said, his voice filled with an inner darkness Castiel was unfortunately familiar with. "What did you do with it?"

Fergus rolled his eyes. "Bloody hell. That stupid bag." He nodded to his sewing table. "Sat on there for near a week before I got to it. Stank up the place, it did. I don't know what you paid for that, mate, but that kind of foul ain't worth it."

A vein in the Bishop's forehead pulsed, and he glared down at Fergus with murderous intent, his mealy mouth spitting out his words as though they were obscenities. "What did you do with it?"

"What any normal person would do, I punted it into a ditch, about a fortnight ago." He gave the Bishop his trademark sneer. "I know, you told me, 'Bury it under a full moon under some other crap I dont' remember because I wasn't listening'. It was a bloody bag full of rotten bones and some silly piece of paper, and you paid money for it because you're a fool. None of that shyte works. I know from experience." He winced as the Bishop made a move to strike him, his signet ring glinting in the gloom of the room. "Yeah, that's right. I prayed and prayed as a lad and it never got me nowhere. I got no deliverance from you, you sick monster, and that's when I knew the truth."

A hand went to Fergus's throat, and he seemed to shrink more from the touch than the threat of its squeeze. "What truth are you speaking of, blasphemer?" the Bishop hissed, his mouth a thin line, his eyes, black but still human, piercing through the near dark.

He does look like a monster, Castiel thought, taking in the harsh angles of the man's face, the cruelty apparent in every line. His evil was etched into him in thick, uncompromising shadows, and Castiel had to wonder, just to what purpose did this man take an orphan into his care. Castiel was habitually observant, and he knew this creature had not one shard of kindness in his soul. 

To what purpose was that charity performed?

"You know damn well."

"Enlighten me."

But Fergus refused to talk, instead turning his head away from his accuser. The hand at his throat eased, and the Bishop crossed his arms, his red robe falling out from his sides in congruence with the flames of the fire behind him. "I am very disappointed in you."

Fergus scoffed. "Like that's something new."

"Yes. You have disappointed me before. And I have forgiven you, after the appropriate punishment was delivered upon your folly."

"Folly. Right. That's what you call it."

The Bishop glowered over him, his thin, sallow face betraying the deep hatred he had for his charge. He waved to his henchmen and they seemed to understand what this gesture meant as they kicked Fergus in the stomach, their fists pummelling him into near unconsciousness. When he was properly bloodied, they shackled him with large chains to his own sewing table, rendering him immobile. His arms and legs were brutally secured, the iron clasps cutting deep into his skin. Fergus struggled with what meagre strength he had left, the sweat on his brow dripping down the sides of his face, his eyes wide with terror, despite the continued bravado of his mouth.

"You could always try again. Drum up a few chicken bones and a blue bottle of piss, next time, it'll be cheaper and I'm sure it'll grab your devil's attention. Can't rightly say much for the fellow, if that's what he considers an invitation for a chat. Certain lack of class there, a lack of charm. I guess it's all about the company he keeps." Fergus gave the Bishop a defiant wink. "Says volumes about you, don't it?"

The Bishop leaned over him, his face so close Fergus turned his head, doing his best to avoid the spittle that erupted from his tormentor's foaming fury. "You are a vile, putrid worm. A piece of garbage from a Glasgow dung heap and nothing more. You couldn't even bury a bag of bones properly, you stupid little maggot. I waited at that crossroads, in the pouring rain, from sundown to sunrise, all for nought because of *you*!" He stood up, taking one of the long swords that belonged to his henchman, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. "I hear from the villagers that you are partial to getting soused in the ale house not far from here, and you have a habit of running from your tab. Intemperence does not become a man, Fergus. Nor does a prediliction for whoring, which from what I've been led to believe is your preferred method of payment with that disgusting, sweaty innkeeper, who was more than happy to tell me all about your special skills..."

"Jealous, are we?"

"...Now I hear you are consorting with devils..."

"That's old news," Fergus said. "Funny rumour, that. Wonder how that one got started?"

Castiel felt an uneasy wave of hatred flow from the Bishop to Fergus, and he knew the man was testing every boundary he could, and with this he may have tipped the balance. Fergus seemed to understand this, his jaw set as the Bishop weighed the sword in his aged grip, the man surprisingly strong for his advanced years. "You are going to learn a lesson I should have taught you from the beginning," the Bishop promised. His signet ring shone blood red against the reflections of the fire. He steadied his blade, testing its sharpness against the pad of his thumb. "Clearly, what is offensive must be cut out." The Bishop's dark, small eyes gleamed with a hunger for his victim's pain. "I will put it on display, as a constant reminder to all. This is the price paid for shameless fornicators."

All colour drained from Fergus's face. He fought against his restraints, blood seeping over the iron, rusted hinges mingling with his flesh. He shivered, his eyes so wide with terror there was a madness trembling within them. "You can't...You wouldn't!"

He had to stop this. 

As an angel of the Lord, there was no way he could simply stand there and watch as this horrific act played itself out, regardless of what his assignment specified. Castiel pushed against the window of observation, but to his shock it remained static, refusing to budge. He shoved again and this time the corners of it clouded over, pushing him away from the events as they transpired, shutting him out. With this act Balthazar's paradox had been eradicted, and the past became impenetrable.

Across an indefinable chasm, Fergus's last gasp screamed into the grey in-between Castiel found himself in. A swathe of red poured across Castiel's consciousness in thick, clotting torture, ending only when the angel shouted against it, his own revulsion tearing into the murk with white outrage.

///

This was a problem.

Castiel did not like loose ends. Despite his messy appearance, he was a rather orderly being, one who liked events and outcomes to make perfect sense. What he had witnessed was, in his mind, a true travesty of justice. Crowley's original soul, the rather pleasant fellow known as Fergus McLeod, should never have suffered the consequences of a crossroad contract he hadn't sought out. That was the Bishop's doing, and he was the one Castiel tried to find within the many layers of Hell in an effort to put things right. There was an order to things that had to be followed, or else all would collapse into chaos. He'd learned that lesson himself all too well.

However, it became clear to Castiel, after countless searches through files and cross-referenced names, dates, locations and levels of torment, the man who had so cruelly ruined Fergus McLeod's pleasant evening was nowhere to be found. Considering the likelihood of the man becoming immortal had a specific probability ratio (four google trillion to one), logic dictated that the Bishop's soul resided somewhere not on Earth, and was perhaps hiding in some closet here in Hell, or perhaps under a rotted floorboard. 

Architectural investigation proved fruitless, and Castiel impatiently checked his watch, his cell phone buzzing again with Crowley's annoyed text: 'If you are not back here within the hour you will be forced to enjoy a fantastic meal of five star Michelin quality accompanied by a bottle of Romane Conti. Don't make me order the raspberry chocolate mousse.' He thought about texting Crowley back, but he wasn't ready for the demon to know he had completed his tasks just yet. Instinct told him it was better his investigation be performed in secret.

Not having a proper name to go on was part of the problem. Though he had the region--Aberlour, Scotland--he had to narrow down the possibilities according to the variances of social title, and it irked him that he had to do a fair amount of guesswork in regards to actual identities. There was a decided lack of Bishops occupying the region, which further frustrated his effort. Giving up on Hell Occupants, he moved onto the section marked 'General Populace', which outlined the details of potential new squatters, both alive and dead, who were on the shortlist to stand in Hell's queue. Billions upon billions of names scrolled past his vision, and he was about to give up when one suddenly stood out. He scanned backwards a few thousand pages to find it once again.

"Octavius Corsicas. Inquisitioner. Region: Northern Scotland. Status: Deceased. Current Residence: --."

The simplicity of the description was what alerted him first. Most of the people on this list had fully detailed explanations for why they were on Hell's backburner, with point form notes detailing white lies, slothful behaviour, not recycling and watching Jersey Shore. He slid a fingertip across the Corsicas name in an effort to call up an image, and was immediately blocked from viewing it. 

"Password protected file"

Hardly. If he squinted, he could see the Enochian script hiding just beneath the text, a clever enough code to fool demons, but not one he hadn't worked on before. Gabriel had been fond of these sorts of cuniforms, intensely complex designs that he would give Castiel to work out as a way to pass a celestial afternoon. This one was crude. For Castiel it was as though it were written in crayon.

He broke into it and the image slid out. An evil, familiar visage leered back at him, a detailed view of his current abode sending a curious shock of rage through Castiel's being. 

His instincts had been correct, this was seriously, unquestioningly *wrong*.

He closed the file, replacing the Enochian code with something far more complicated. His cell phone buzzed again, and he ignored it, knowing it was Crowley who by now probably included a jazz CD and candles into the mix of a pleasant evening set to destroy this angel's hope for suffering. He would take it all back, Castiel was sure. With this kind of gift offered, only the dankest, most revolting dungeon would do.

///

Balthazar appeared uneasy as he stood beside Castiel, the grey nothingness of the In-Between slipping past and through them in a smoky haze. "I'm not comfortable with this," he said.

"You know I can't go in," Castiel said. "My brothers will destroy me for what I have done, as well they should. To be banished from Heaven is part of the atonement I must face. That does not mean, however, that I simply stand by and do nothing when there has been a serious breach of what is fundamental to Heaven's very existence." Castiel handed Balthazar a name, one which his celestial brother was loathe to take. "It is a cancer that must be removed."

"Are you sure about this?" Balthazar asked, nervously looking the name over. "Maybe he repented."

"Unlikely."

Balthazar scratched at his chin, still uncertain. "Are you sure this doesn't have something to do with your new best friend?" He glanced up at Castiel, who remained unbending. "Like you feel you owe something to a demon who gave you sanctuary? Really, Cas, it's not normal what you're doing to yourself. You made a mistake, a big one. But so does everybody, at some point. Going on a suffering bender in Hell isn't solving anything."

"Please do as I ask," Castiel said, a sense of desperation rising within him. "Get that thing out of Heaven." His icy gaze narrowed, filled with a smiting intensity. "Preferably in pieces."


	4. Chapter 4

hearts are made of broken glass--chapter four

Crowley stood silent, the mood in his dungeon infuriatingly awkward as he eyed the twitching burlap sack at Castiel's feet. He took a step closer to it, only to reel back as the impact of it hit him. "Ugh, it's disgusting." He held his sleeve at his nose and mouth, holding the stench back. "It positively reeks of the celestial."

"I had to bring it down in pieces for ease of transport." Crowley caught a moment's hesitation at this explanation, one which suggested the angel wasn't telling the whole truth. Those bloodied, dripping hands told quite a story, one that spoke of harshly metered out renderings of justice. To what purpose this all transpired was a mystery Crowley instinctively didn't want solved. He took a step back, every word he spoke carefully chosen.

"So you succeeded in that special assignment I gave you."

"The one where you believe you made a deal with a crossroads demon, yes it went satisfactorily." Castiel frowned, reflecting on it.

"Good." A sense of relief washed over Crowley and he rubbed his hands together in victory. "Everything is in alignment. Brilliant. Now we can get back to some proper torture sessions and misery. How do you feel about thumbscrews?"

"...However, I am not entirely sure that is what happened."

Damn him. Stupid, doubtful angel! "Of course it is," Crowley testily replied, a little stab of fear jutting into him. He shrugged the issue off, projecting an attitude of casual nonchalance, though he certainly didn't feel it. He gestured to his dungeon, complete with slabs, knives, bloodied aprons and Nickleback CDs. "I wouldn't be here doing the fantastic job I'm doing if it were otherwise."

"You were under the influence of a considerable amount of alcohol. It is understandable if the details remain hazy to you." Castiel took a step forward, leaving the twitching burlap sack behind him, his manner one of intense, rather frightening, scrutiny. Crowley found himself pressed against the stone wall, not the first time the angel had such effect on him, only this time it wasn't out of violence so much as a profound need for space. "You were obsessed with poultry," Castiel said.

"Really, Castiel, you did a fantastic job." Crowley gave him a tense smile that was more grimacing than pleasant. "I got a nice, slimy, stinking little shit hole of a cell all ready for you, complete with whips for self flagellation if that gets your torment rocks off. I can increase the Dean Winchester channel on your telly while you do it, and you can cry and howl and enjoy all the suffering you're so keen on experiencing. Whatever you want to shatter your being with, mate, it's none of my business, I'm not the one to judge."

"I am aware of how you died."

"Due to falling in a pile of muck, in my own sick, and I caught pneumonia as a result. Not exactly the most romantic of send-offs, but then, this is why you got the assignment and no one else. I was counting on your infamous discretion, my lovely, and would very much prefer you keep such dangerous knowledge to yourself!" Crowley's jaw worked over his anger, chewing on it, enjoying the way it was building up inside of him. "I'm warning you, if so much as a whisper of this gets out, I will hand you over to your Heavenly brothers who--I admit--will find far more creative ways to destroy you. They don't have a 'hands off the Winchesters' policy, last I looked."

Castiel remained expressionless. "That was not how you expired."

Crowley held up a warning finger, his fury morphing into fear and rage, seesawing back and forth between the two emotions so quickly it was making him sick. "Not one whisper!"

Castiel was not about to let the subject drop. "What happened was an unfortunate miscarriage of justice." The twitching burlap sack rolled onto its side, causing a sickening lurch in the pit of Crowley's being. He didn't like the way Castiel stood too close, too full of strength and understanding, the genuine sympathy the angel poured his way making Crowley's guts smart. "It was necessary to aright it." Castiel frowned, a piece of the puzzle that lay in the burlap heap on the floor of the dungeon working its way into his literal reasoning. "This putrescence found its way into Heaven, a facet that confuses me. It belongs here, in Hell, to suffer in agony at the lowest level of Hades. I do not understand how it circumvented this process." He placed his palms on the stone wall, bracing his arms on either side of Crowley, studying the demon with a scrutiny that made Crowley weak. "Fergus McLeod was not a bad man. I rather liked him."

"Then you obviously didn't know him very well," Crowley spat back. "As you have witnessed, he became perfectly capable at the unspeakable."

"He was not the one who performed the spell to call up a crossroads demon. He had no belief in such things. How can a deal be honoured when the contract has no bearing on the individual involved?" Castiel glanced back at the burlap sack, its seams seeping blood. "This is what belongs here. I have to wonder how it came to be that you wandered into this position, to suffer in Hell without questioning it."

Crowley felt his mouth go dry at this. He swallowed, his fury and fear a sandy rock sinking in his throat. The burlap sack was in his peripheral vision, twitching in shocked agony.

"What have you done?"

Castiel was unbending. "Heaven is no place for monsters."

No. He was not going to deal with this, he was not to going to let some stupid angel bully him into facing his past, not when it all it did was make him feel sick and dizzy and scared and just so fucking *weak*. Bastard. The damned bastard. He was going to rip his wings off, snap him in half...No, he'd like that, the suffering fool, he'd love every moment of it, paying his damned penance for all his prideful misdeeds. Imagine, the nerve of him, feeling sorry for Fergus, going off on some idiot crusade that no one asked of him and that damn well wasn't appreciated. He'd ruined everything! Stupid, stupid, stupid angel!

The burlap sack rolled, and Crowley fought the urge to gag as the stench of Heaven wafted off of it. He didn't want to be here, surrounded by Castiel's sanctimonious grace and that...thing...that once had a name. He wasn't about to honour it by even thinking it.

Castiel grabbed the ties on the burlap sack and began to unravel them. "I believe you will enjoy torturing this one," he said. "I imagine it will give you great satisfaction due to the personal connection."

Castiel couldn't be more wrong. What Crowley wanted more than anything right now was to be as far away from that disgusting chunky spew of celestial pus and that stupid angel as he could get, and he knew exactly where to go. There was no way Castiel was going to follow him.

///

Vile. Absolutely vile. But no matter, he would drink it anyway.

He downed the fourth bottle of Bobby Singer's rotgut and let it fall to the floor with a loud smash as he gathered up a few more. He'd argued the need for class and decorum in one's choice of drink, but at the moment he could concede that the rough edged human had a point. Sometimes, it was all about getting the job done. And what Crowley was working on, very diligently it must be added, was to get rip roaring pissed.

Heavy steps stomping on creaking wooden planks alerted Crowley to Bobby's presence, and he blearily staggered back as the grizzled man shot out a few choice curse words and brandished a shotgun full of rock salt. "Really, darling, is that a gun in your hand or are you just glad to see me?" The phrase seemed incredibly funny to Crowley, who nearly collapsed into a fit of giggling over it, his laughter whiskey-tinged and echoing across the metal walls of the container he'd tried to enclose himself in. He dropped the bottles of booze onto the cot and rubbed at his eyes before pointing to the open door. "Here, then, be a dear and close up shop, will you? Burnt me bloody hands on those Enochian symbols."

He held up his red and blistered palms so Bobby could see he was telling the truth, a fact that seemed to make the burly man even angrier instead of acquiescing.

"Just what in the fool hell do you think you're doing here?"

"I quit."

"What do you mean you quit? You can't just quit being the King of Hell." Bobby kept his gun cocked. "What game are you playing now?"

It was really quite interesting, this little bubble of metal and symbols the Winchesters and Singer had constructed in his basement. Kind of cozy, really, like camping out. There was a kettle plugged in to the far wall, and a few pleasant photos of waterfall scenery, a weirdly naturalist touch that had Sam Winchester written all over it. The bedding was clean, and there were several books stacked against the entrance, containing everything from a battered paperback edition of The Necromonicon to On The Road. He puzzled over a copy of American Psycho and almost put it back, only to toss it onto the cot to accompany the rest of his needs. Nothing like a bit of fun, light reading to round out a relaxing evening.

"True, I can't say that I quit, necessarily," he further explained. "More like I avoided a lay-off, considering my job is about to become redundant. Quitting was definitely the best option. Best move was to just leave it behind and go. Trust me, the severance package sucks."

"You can't stay here," Bobby growled.

"Yes, I can. You can't banish me. I'm here of my own free will." Crowley popped the cork on a fresh bottle of rotgut and downed a good portion of it before continuing. "Go ahead and try to exorcise me," he taunted. "I'll just pop right back in faster than you can say 'spiritus sancti'. Now, like I said, be a good old boy and shut that door."

Bobby lowered his gun, and let it fall to his side, his head shaking. "I don't get why you'd want to be locked up in here."

"I've been needing some me time."

Bobby wasn't buying it. He tore his bottle of rotgut out of Crowley's hand and slammed it onto the table beside him. "You're going to tell me what's going on. From where I'm standing, you're looking mighty frazzled, and that makes me nervous. I have to wonder what can make a demon shiver in his boots like you are, even if you are putting on the honey badger act."

Crowley frowned at this. "What's a honey badger got to do with anything?"

Bobby shrugged. "Honey Badger don't care. He don't give a shit."

"What are you talking about?"

"You got an iPhone and you don't keep up with internet memes? What kind of idjit are you?"

Crowley blinked and crookedly glanced at the various bottles he had left on the floor of Bobby's basement. They clearly packed a bigger punch than he'd expected.

"One stupid enough to allow a sparrow in my attic," Crowley bitterly replied. He collapsed onto the cot, the small metal room spinning. "Only he isn't a sparrow, is he? He's a hawk, that bastard. With a nasty rat caught in his talons."

Bobby wasn't about to let up. He aimed the barrel of his gun at Crowley's chest, determined to let the demon know he meant business.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Some stupid angel," Crowley said, the spinning room lulling him into a sense of blissful unconsciousness. "Thursday's child. Castiel."


	5. Chapter 5

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS--chapter five

Another bottle smashed, and Bobby winced at the impact. "He's been holed up in there, tearing apart that bomb shelter for three days now. He sucked back all my booze and all I got left is skunky Old Milwalke. I tried every exorcism and spell I can think of, and studied a few new ones besides, but nothing is making that devil budge. Don't matter how much hellfire I throw at him, he just shakes off the cinders and keeps at it." He crossed his arms and shook his head, his annoyance at the situation palpable. "If this keeps up I'm charging the bastard rent. At least he'd owe me something for all this trouble."

Sam was the one who had to state the obvious. "Have you tried talking to him?"

Bobby wanted to argue against this, but his shoulders slumped and he sank into the worn leathered chair behind his large oak desk. An ancient cup of coffee with floating bits of fluffy mold were jostled out of their slumber as he pushed it aside to clear an area on the cluttered surface. He reached into the depths of the bottom right hand drawer and pulled out a bottle of weathered sambuca. "Nasty stuff," he said, making a face as he poured himself a shot. "Fellow hunter left this behind once and I kept meaning to throw it out. Now it's all I got left. It's like bad licorice that burns diesel fuel down your throat. But beggars can't be choosers these days." He offered some to the Winchesters, who both politely declined. He braced himself and took the shot, his mouth grimacing as it poured its liquid heat down around his heart. He slammed the shot glass onto the surface of his desk and coughed. "For once the bastard doesn't know how to talk. He mumbles crap about angels and demons and the past creeping on the present and none of it makes any sense. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's lost his marbles but good."

"What do angels have to do with anything?" Dean asked.

"Hell if I know," Bobby said. He thought about pouring himself another shot, only to curse as he paused, and put the strong tasting liquer back into its hiding place. "If you're so keen on talking to the devil, go ahead and see what he has to say. Maybe you'll have better luck flushing out a full sentence."

"Must be something really bothering him if he's holing up here of all places," Sam said, his hands deep in his pockets, his brow furrowed in thought. 

"Why would he come here?" Dean asked, and Bobby remained mum on the subject, the foul sambuca tempting his palate yet again. "The last time we saw Crowley he was running out the back door. As for angels, well, they have a great way of disappearing right when you need them most. 'As above, so below.' Kind of a head's up on how similar all those jerks are if you ask me." Dean punched his fist into his palm and gave his brother and Bobby a firm, resolute nod towards the back end of the house. "I guess we just do what we always do. Face this thing head on and punch our way through it. Rocksalt, holy water and blessed bullets. The Winchester trinity."

Bobby cursed as another bottle smashed against the wall of the bomb shelter. "I re-use those, you idjit!" he shouted into the depths of the house. "Damn mo-ron! Those are my good rotgut bottles! Seasoned for decades of good 'shine and you're smashing up my supplies!" He breathed in swear words that Sam and Dean hadn't heard in a long, long time. He stood out of Dean's way. "Get down there and do what you can. I'll have nothing to keep my own engines running if that idjit keeps this up. Don't let up until you get a straight answer, he's more slippery than usual these last few days." He glared at their hesitation. "Well, go on! Git! What do you want to do, wait for me to hand you the damned eviction notice! Get going and crack open that devil, because dammit I'm all out of ideas!"

***

Sam crept down the wooden stairs, every step he took creaking beneath his weight. He ducked beneath a beam, his brother following close behind him with a flashlight. "I'm not exactly fond of this place," Sam admitted, swallowing as he took in the shape of the bomb shelter, its strangely submarine appearance making his mouth go dry. "I don't know why anyone would willfully put themselves in there. It's like being in a coffin while you're alive."

Dean gave his brother a guilt ridden look. "Yeah, well...You know I wouldn't have done that to you if I had a choice."

Sam frowned, his confusion evident. "Dean, I don't blame you for those times. Not at all. I was out of control and you did what you had to do, I fully understand that."

"Maybe," Dean said, somewhat unconvinced. "I don't exactly have fond memories of that thing either."

Sam tiptoed his way closer, the floor littered in front of the bomb shelter littered with broken amber bottles, a good month's supply of Bobby's favourite stash laying in ruins before him. He pushed the larger pieces out of the way with the heel of his workboots, his worry over their possible hexing making every step a hazardous one. "Crowley?" he called into the gloom, his hands at his sides, palms open, doing all the by the book psychology he could muster to appear non-threatening, "I'm not here to do anything, no exorcisms, no rocksalt, no holy water, no bullets..." Dean gave him an exasperated 'Oh really?' look and Sam could only shrug. "It's just Dean and I and we're just here to talk. Nothing else."

Silence. 

Sam and Dean tiptoed closer to the bomb shelter entrance. They were shocked to see the door was still partially open, and through a tiny sliver they could discern a rather dishevelled Crowley sitting on the simple bunk bed, its surface littered with bottles. More were piled high around his feet, where they rolled back and forth on the uneven floor. The demon took a long swig from the bottle in his hand before motioning to the large steel door. His palms were burned black. "Close the door and lock me in," Crowley demanded. He placed the bottle on the floor and held up his injured palms. "I've tried, I can't do it."

"Enochian symbols," Sam said, frowning.

Sam and Dean stepped into the chamber with Crowley, respectfully closing the door behind them.

***

It was kind of a relief, actually, to have the brothers Grimm holed up in the same self-imposed cell he'd made for himself, because at least now the door was officially closed and he could fall back onto the small bunk bed and properly relax. He rested his head on the pillow, which smelled of jasmine freshness (Sam Winchester really knew his fabric softener) and, as a measure of thanks, he handed an opened bottle of Bobby's moonshine to Sam, who took it with frowning concern. It was as Crowley was opening a new bottle that he eyed the bottle he'd handed Sam with question. Was it full of booze or piss? Oh well, no matter, the sasquatch wasn't thirsty and he had a new bottled friend, and if his sulking brother couldn't get in on the game either, well, he could play possum all by himself, thank you muchly.

"I hear you quit being the King of Hell," Dean observed.

"Amazing how fast those memos get around," Crowley replied.

Sam let out a frustrated sigh and snatched the bottle out of Crowley's charcoal crisped palm. "You can't live in Bobby's basement," he announced. "For one, he has a rat problem, and frankly, those rats are slumming."

"I don't know, I find it rather cozy."

"Why have you locked yourself in here?" Dean asked.

"..And crowded."

"I can only think of one reason why someone like you would lock yourself in an old bomb shelter that burns your palms every time you touch the door," Sam said, hands on his hips as he regarded the soused version of the King of Hell. Correction. *Retired* King of Hell. "Either you don't want something getting out, or you don't want something getting in, and I'm guessing in a big way it's the latter." He narrowed his eyes on Crowley. "What are you so afraid of?"

"It's got nothing to do with any of you," Crowley snapped.

"Oh I think it does," Dean quipped. "If you've locked yourself in here because you're scared, heck, much as I want to snap your little weasel neck, I have to say, cowardice isn't a description I'd give you, so if there's a boogeyman crawling out of your closet, it puts us all on edge."

Crowley snatched back his bottle from Sam and took a long swig. "It's personal. No need for you to fret."

"Yeah, right," Dean said, pacing before him. "What kind of personal are we talking here? More monsters? New and improved breeds of terrible things? Angels getting all up in your business?"

"Is he ever," Crowley said before he could stop himself. He sneered at Sam and Dean's questioning looks. "I give him sanctuary. I let him mope about, being a royal buzz kill. Can you blame me for getting sick of seeing his self imposed misery day in and day out, none of it created by me, by the way, and all the while he's chipping away at my own resources for his self torture. He was sponging off of me, and frankly it pissed me off. So, I make him pay his way. I give him a job. A stupid, little job to keep him busy and what does he do?" Crowley downed the last drop out of his bottle and began a search for a new one. Sam kicked it out of his way, forcing him to continue his story. "It's not fair," Crowley whined. "He plucks the one miserable bastard from my past and plunks him at my feet like some proud golden retriever dog. Like it was some prize and he deserved a bone. Bullocks! I should have sent him to the last tier of Hell like he'd wanted and just washed my hands of him!"

Dean exchanged glances with his brother. "Who are you talking about?" Sam asked.

"Castiel! That stupid moron! He pulled my former guardian out of Heaven, trussed him up in a burlap sack and dragged him to Hell, just like that! Idiot!"

There was a long pause at this. 

"Castiel is alive?" Sam asked.

"Not for long if I get my way," Crowley shot back.

The news of their friend and betrayer still being alive left Dean reeling, and Sam wasn't exactly feeling the love himself. The last they'd known of Castiel, he'd filled himself full to bursting with the Leviathan, and then collapsed under the weight of its power. It had been quite a mess to clean up, not the least of which was the loss of a being they had trusted and called their friend. He'd betrayed them in the belief that he'd been right and it was that arrogance that had shattered the bond that had been created. By the look of things, he hadn't exactly learned his lesson yet.

Dean was doing all he could to keep his anger in check, but it was hard going. "Cas is alive," he muttered. He ran his palm across his chin, holding in his fury. "I don't get it. So he brings back your adoptive father, what's the big deal? I got issues with my old man too, but I'm not about to hole myself up in a metal coffin for his sake."

"My guardian was a priest. A bishop, to be precise, one of a high order. He was also a pedophile and an Inquisitioner. My childhood, if you want to call it that, made Hell a piece of cake in comparison." He picked up the well worn copy of American Psycho to give it another peruse, the corners near tatters from harshly turned pages. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some time alone for some light reading. Be sure to shut the door on your way out."


	6. Chapter 6

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS–chapter six

Dean paced in front of Bobby's desk, his fury tapped out the measurement of his strides. Sam had long since stopped watching him and had fallen asleep on Bobby's worn couch. Bobby himself had already retreated to his own bed upstairs, his mood made all the more cantankerous at the thought of Castiel being alive. Or it was the sambuca doing a number on his liver. Either way, everyone else was pissed but resolved about the ways of angels except for Dean, who paced and frowned and let all the feelings inside of him boil like heated oil. He'd called Castiel his friend, hell, he'd called him family and that jerk spat in the face of that loyalty and betrayed them with a devil. Now that exact same devil was hiding out in their own safe house and as usual a certain angel was to blame.

Damn you, Cas, Dean thought. You really know how to screw a guy over.

He could hear a strangled cat sound emenating from Bobby's basement. Crowley, so drunk he was singing an ancient Scottish tune, one full of vowels that weren't supposed to exist and notes that only bats and some breeds of dolphins could hear. Screw this. Dean reached into the top drawer of Bobby's desk and grabbed the silver revolver that lay hidden beneath a secret panel. He was going to go downstairs and take care of business and send at least one being back to the Hell he belonged.

No, Dean. Don't.

It really shouldn't surprise him after all this time to see how easily the dead come back to life. They sneak in when you least expect it, in memories, in charged moments, and now, when nothing but anger was sitting inside of his heart and not ounce of forgiveness was left. Yet even here, in his fury, Dean could feel the tight wedge in his throat, the nudge of joy in his heart to know that Castiel still existed. For all his flawed decisions and his arrogance, the angel he'd called his brother was still here. 

"Cas.."

"Dean. I've made a terrible mistake."

"It's not the first time."

He clenched his fists, wanting to punch him, but he felt helpless in the knowledge that such an act was futile. This was an angel, after all. He'd just stand there and take it and let Dean wrestle him until there was no fight left in him. Instead, he answered the angel's presence with a simple statement. "You went to Hell."

"I needed to atone for what I had done."

"You honestly think that's where it happens?"

Castiel carefully took in Dean's words. "I didn't know what else to do."

"How about this, how about; Sorry I betrayed you. How about; Sorry, I was only pretending to be your ally so I could get what I want. How about; Sorry, Dean, I fucking lied to you!"

"I didn't have any other choice."

"There are always choices," Dean spat at him. "This place, this little speck of creation that your dad built? It's made for choices. You just happened to pick the wrong one."

Castiel couldn't look at him. He kept his head turned away, shame and hurt evident in every inch of his features, his sadness slipping away from him in waves. It curled around a healthy green plant in Bobby's kitchen window and turned it yellow, its tips browned. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Sorry doesn't cut it."

Dean sighed and shook his head, his foot stomping against Crowley's continued, mad singing. "Now we have a new problem. One you made. I'm tired of you having to tell me what kind of crap heaven and hell are throwing at us next, and this time, by the sounds of it, you got personal all over again. What the hell made you drag Crowley's father out of heaven? That wasn't any of your business."

"You're wrong, Dean," Castiel said, resolute. "It absolutely was."

"You dragged him in a burlap sack to hell, Crowley says. Is that true?"

Castiel gave Dean a haunted expression, one full of sorrow and regrets and a lingering longing that refused to abate. "His prescence in heaven was corruptive. I couldn't allow it to continue. He is a very evil man."

"So I've gathered."

Castiel frowned at this. "How much did Crowley tell you?"

"Just that his dear old dad was a diddler and a thumbscrew fan."

"It is much worse than that."

"I'm sure, but I'm not keen on the details, if you get my drift."

Castiel remained reluctantly quiet at this, the intense scrutiny of his gaze wandering to the back of Bobby's house where the stairs leading to the basement beckoned. Dean couldn't understand why Castiel had taken the risk he had, and while he wanted the angel to explain himself, another part of him just didn't care anymore. When it came to being close, the angel had slammed the door in his face and might as well have spat at him on his way out. Dean crossed his arms, glaring at Bobby's worn floorboards, wondering how long this tense standoff of silence was going to envelope them when Castiel suddenly spoke:

"I need your help," he said.

"Like hell."

"This is important."

"It always is."

"Dean, you must understand," Castiel's voice was pleading, and it was all Dean could do not to let the old feelings over-ride his anger, his relief over his former friend being alive cancelling out the fury he felt over his betrayal. "The corruption of Heaven is no small matter. It will breed like a cancer and, worse than anything Lucifer or his minions tried to accomplish can happen. We are talking about the eradication of Heaven, and if that happens, there will be no Hell. There will be no Earth. Corruption will kill us all." Castiel spoke carefully, his words quiet as they rode along the din of Crowley's horrific singing. "Worse still, I don't believe Crowley understands this but I'm certain the angel he bargained with to put his guardian in heaven does. I suspect Crowley is not what he claims to be, and I mean to prove it, but to do so I require your assistance."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked. 

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, as though worried some unseeable foe could overhear him. Perhaps there was one. "I believe Crowley still has a soul."

"Really? Whose?"

"His own."

"What?" Dean raised a brow at this. "That's impossible. He's a demon through and through. And just what do you mean he bargained with an angel to put his torturer into Heaven? Why would he do that, for one, and why would an angel agree to it if doing that is so dangerous it can destroy everyone?"

"I don't know," Castiel said. "But the only way I can be certain is to touch Crowley's soul and if he is a demon as you believe, I run the risk of corruption myself and I will be destroyed by the attempt."

"So where do I fit in?"

He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. It was warm, and oddly light. "When I rescued you from perdition, my mark was left upon you. You possess some of my essence, and I can investigate Crowley's soul, if he has one, if you take me along for the ride."

"Whoa," Dean held up his hands at this. "Are you talking about fondling Crowley's soul, because that is way out of my comfort zone, pal."

"We can gain imporant information about the angel he had bargained with and why." He cast a glance towards the caterwauling at the back of Bobby's house, his mouth a thin line. "I am as reluctant to do this as you are. I had the priviledge of meeting Fergus McLeod, and he was not a bad man. I believe his cruelty is something he learned for his work and is not metered out without a sense of justice, no matter how perverted that reasoning has become. An angel of the Lord has allowed human frailty to render cracks in the celestial plane. Heaven cannot be corrupted, Dean. You are correct when you say that your world is comprised of choices, possibilities layered in complex forms one atop the other. But this is not so for the absolutes of heaven and hell. You need to understand this."

"As above, so below," Dean retorted.

"There is nothing said about what's in between," Castiel countered.

***

He wasn't comfortable with this, not in the least. It was bad enough Castiel, his betrayer and best friend, was now back from the dead, their reunion was cut short by the sudden necessary evil of touching a putrid soul that might or might not be too happy about the unexpected intrusion. "This is really creepy," he admitted to Cas as they crept into the basement, rows of Bobby's rusted out tools slowly waving across the cieling, the outline of a slow moving fan imprinted in a shadow on the wall. "Crowley isn't going to go for this, there's no way I'm going to be able to get my hand wrist dip into his abdomen."

"He doesn't need to know," Castiel assured him. "He will be asleep."

"Demons and angels don't sleep."

"You forget my abilities. Besides, he has gone through most of Bobby's alcohol supply. It is of significantly stronger spirits than the ones I imbibed when I drank that liquor store. We will not meet with resistance."

"Says you," Dean said.

They crept towards the bomb shelter, shards of glass pushed aside with ease thanks to Castiel's more confident strides. "We still have unfinished business ourselves," Dean said. "Look, I put my hand in Crowley's stomach and then what? Just sit and wait for the information to show up?"

"It doesn't work that way," Castiel cryptically replied.

"Then how *does* it work?"

"Please, Dean, don't ask so many questions." He cast a glance at Dean's tortured expression at this and instantly regret wafted off the angel in waves. "I assure you, I am being truthful in this."

"The thing is, Cas, when you betray someone, it takes a long time for the word truth to have any meaning." He nodded at the closed door. "Crowley's stopped singing. Now might be a good time to open it up."

Castiel kept his gaze on Dean as he slowly inched the door open. "I am sorry for what happened, Dean. I am filled with regrets. But I am resolute in the knowledge that there was no other way. I can only wish I had the faith you have in alternatives. I have told you, I am a being of absolutes. It is difficult for me to understand the many branches of choice. In a way, I envy this of you."

"Whatever," Dean said, and he pulled the door open. "Yo, Crowley!"

The demon lay snoring on the cot, hundreds of bottles of Bobby's rotgut strewn all around him. Castiel made a motion with his two fingers to keep him in a deep sleep, only to hesitate and not bother. "He is unconscious, but not sleeping as you understand it. He will not stir for several days. I can feel the edges of his dreams. They are sharp and will not let us in. Now is the perfect time to investigate his soul." Castiel held out his hand. "Hold tight. The bond cannot be broken or you run the risk of losing yourself in Crowley's soul."

"If he has a soul," Dean reminded him.

"Use your right hand to go in," Castiel said. "Whatever you do, do not release your grip on me."


	7. Chapter 7

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS–chapter seven

It was the loud screeching of seagulls that awoke him, and he blinked into the bright onslaught of sunlight, warm sand grating against the back of his head. Salted air filled his lungs as he sat up, a dried patch of seaweed scratching against his palm. Confused, he brushed the white sands off of his suit, the pleasant stretch of blue that caressed the horizon a peaceful example of infinity. He stepped back, doubtful of the peace that resided here, and he nearly fell back over the large umbrella that had been strategically placed beside him, its shade having drifted towards the cliff-face to the left of where he was standing. On a flat rock, just a few feet away from the flowered umbrella, was a bottle of unopened Chablis and two delicate champagne glasses. Crowley wasn't entirely sure if it was safe to drink such victuals when there always was the risk of poisoning in some manner, but the calm setting and the beauty of the place created an unexpected sense of well being within him, and he happily opened the Chablis and poured himself a drink. Then, seeing the empty second glass, he shrugged to himself and poured another, figuring if there was an unseen companion here, it was only polite to offer. He could always double hand it if it came to that.

"You know, I never really thought of you as the beach lounging sort, but I can tell, you're enjoying this."

Crowley took a sip of the Chablis. It was cold and velvet on his tongue and with the warm sands and ocean coolled breeze, he sat beneath the large flowered umbrella and clinked the rim of his glass against the other, which was now held by a slender, tanned hand with perfectly manicured nails. "I take it you're doing well," he said.

The bottle of Chablis was moved giving his companion room on the flat rock, the sun shining behind her, giving her long, brown locks a golden halo. Her toes dug into the soft sand. "Better than expected."

"I should think so."

Bella smiled at this, and offered to top off his glass, which he'd already polished off. "Funny, isn't it, how some things turn out. I trust you got into a bit of trouble thanks to me."

"Not as much as one would expect," Crowley said over the rim of his glass. It really was good Chablis. "In the end, while one can bend the rules a little, it's not acceptable to outright break the law. It was a slap on the wrist, really. A few thousand years hard labour, the usual, though I was able to get about five hundred years shaved off thanks to the obscurity of that innocence clause."

"Deals made with innocents are considered null and void," Bella sagely nodded. "Your superiors must have been bloody angry when they saw me going upstairs instead of down."

"They aren't the most forgiving of employers, no."

Bella was in profile, the sun hitting her skin as though it were kissing her. "Did you suffer much?"

"No more than the usual."

"I wish you hadn't suffered at all."

"Some of us were born for it."

"It makes me sad."

"How can you be? Look at this place." The sun was beginning to set, a speeded up rendition of day into night that was a smooth as the sands, and the air, and company he currently enjoyed. "It's remarkable, how peaceful this all is. I wouldn't have thought you'd want this kind of isolated version of Heaven. Seems to me you'd like to be the life of the party once in a while."

"No," Bella said, her voice confident, happy. "This is exactly where I always pictured my heaven." She glanced down at Crowley who lay sprawled in his good suit beneath the umbrella, sand creeping into the wrinkles of his black trousers. "I used to come here as a child. To get away from my father. It was my sanctuary. We'd vacation here every summer and I'd escape to this exact beach for hours. He never found me here." She placed her glass down, her profile one of bliss. "You arranged that deal with me on purpose. You knew you couldn't make a deal like that. You knew it would fall through."

"Don't be daft, I'm rotten to the core. Sent the hell hounds, didn't I?"

"I was long dead already." She was pensive as she watched the sun set on the horizon, the sky darkening into streaks of blue and purple and gold and slowly into a deep navy hue, the bright eye of the moon cutting across the white capped black water that lapped against her wiggling toes. "Seems to me you've been looking for a secret beach yourself."

"Can't say it doesn't appeal to me."

"How are the Winchesters?"

He paused at this, not entirely sure how to answer her. She was specifically asking about Dean, of course, but he wasn't so foolish as to give her false hope. Dean would never find this beach, he would never have the opportunity to traipse along the sandy shores and see the happiness Bella so desperately deserved. He didn't know her story, and if he did he didn't care. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, this irked Crowley. No hell hound he'd ever sent to collect could have ripped a heart out more.

"Still alive," he said.

"Oh," Bella said, and she seemed disappointed. Then, a familiar grin, one full of mischief and conniving erupted over her features. "Be sure to tell them hello when you see them again."

"Can't say when that will be," Crowley said, pouring himself yet another glass of that wondrous Chablis.

"You'll be seeing Dean Winchester very soon," Bella assured him. Behind her the cliff face was beginning to crumble, the black velvet shoreline bubbling as the sea heated up to boiling. Crowley watched it, impassive, quite sure this wasn't a part of Bella's heavenly construction. She bent close to him, her breath smelling of strong bubblegum, a childish scent. "He's walking around your heart right now, the cheeky monkey. I'm sure you didn't invite him."


	8. Chapter 8

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS–chapter eight

He wasn't kidding when he'd said he was 'coming along for the ride'. As soon as Dean had placed his hand through the ethereal substance of Crowley's stomach, he'd been transported through his own fingertips into the guts of Crowley's host and then, speeding along the whirlwind ride of a main artery, he'd further delved into the cells, then into molecular structures and inside of electrons and then, like some viral creeper who just couldn't get enough, he stood on solid ground, surrounded by red walls and spongey wet dirt. Dean held his breath, though he knew the breathing was an illusion, that it was his own soul that had been transported here, pretending to be somewhere that existed, but was only a product of human imagination.

Human.

"I guess you can say this is a positive reading," Dean said to Castiel, who still stood beside him, staring around him with wary nervousness. 

"It's not a very large soul," Castiel said, sweeping his gaze across the space they'd found themselves in. He gestured to the various holes and caverns that lined the cave-like structure, the light within flickering at best. "It's also severely damaged." He took a step and bits of the ground beneath them fell through, revealing large, black holes that stretched into infinite darkness. "Be careful. He's put a lot of traps in here."

"I don't get it," Dean said, his steps carefully trudging over areas that seemed to be more solid than others, each step tested first before he continued onwards. "If Crowley still has a soul, why is he hiding it like this? I mean, from what I saw of Hell, folks who end up in there eventually lose what little is left of their souls and all that emptiness it leaves behind, that's what turns into demon spawn. Like nuclear waste. Even if it is small and damaged, like you say, it's still a complete soul." An ember of angry consciousness nagged at the back of Castiel's head like a firefly and he shooed it away with the back of his hand. Dean slid his palm along the spongey walls, parts of them rigid, while others were soft and pliable, too easily bruised. "From what I understand a soul this intact is still a free ticket to upstairs, so what's Crowley doing hovering around down in Hell, taking up space he's not supposed to?"

"I have a theory, but it needs to wait until I have more evidence," Castiel replied. "For now, we need to investigate."

A small movement caught Dean's eye and he tried to follow it, but it was too fast. He caught a glimpse of an arm, and then a leg, and then it was gone, running down the centre of a cavern. "Stay here," Dean commanded Castiel. "I'll be right back."

"No, Dean, we have to stay together..." The warning was pointless and Castiel was left behind. As usual, the elder Winchester brother was heedless of caution, and he ran after the small figure dressed in red, the ground solid beneath him. 

Dean was halfway down a long cavern, running with all he had after this kid who moved so quick it was like his feet were made of lightning. "Hey!" Dean shouted at him. "Hey, I just want to ask you something!" The kid paused, his head turned towards him over a slender shoulder, brown eyes wide with terror. He pushed open a slim metal door and slid in and Dean caught up with him, yanking the door open.

He found himself in the centre of what was supposed to be a church, but it was a perverted understanding of it, with grotesque images of torture and chaos lining the walls, the altar itself full of living, breathing sacraments that oozed pus and dripped with the spent blood of those who had fallen into the Bishop's grasp. Dean felt his mouth go dry at the familiar intruments of torture, but there was confusion at them as well. These did not have the familiar sulfer taint of Hell lurking on thier hinges. They were solid, more human in construction. These weren't the imaginings of creatures that knew only the dank holes of Hell, these were tools and they were used. Often.

Bloodcurdling screams that sounded as though they were from a child erupted through the lonely, horrific space and Dean backed away from the various medieval trappings, their bloodsoaked spikes oozing with rot, the gargoyles staring down at him from above leering with perverse pleasure over the thought of harm. Dean Winchester knew Hell inside and out by now thanks to his own time in the place, but this was not one of its many levels. He inched closer to the altar and dared to touch one of the objects of the sacrament, the goblet the Bishop would use to fill with wine for communion. It gave beneath his fingertips like a living thing, the surface lined with veins. He pulled away just as an eye opened wide inside of it, its brown shape the same as the child who had run from him, the terror within it making Dean's knees weak.

Against the far wall, an arched opening was filled with the shape of a looming figure, his red robe trailing the bloodsoaked corridor, the rich golden embroidery of his hem rising up in the centre to form the insignia of His Holiness the Bishop. Fear rose inside of Dean's being with all the rush of adrenaline his body could provide and it was all he could do not to piss himself. This thing that kept coming closer, its red robe all it was made of, the darkness it cloaked so evil it made bile rise inside of him, this thing had taken in a young Fergus McLeod and it made it clear, right from the beginning, that what it wanted had to be given or there were serious, unpleasant, horrific consequences. This was a thing that ate hope and swallowed it and killed it. It was hated and feared and nothing was going to redeem it, not one prayer in its favour, not one deal offered by a devil. 

It was coming closer. Dean put the back of his fist up to his mouth, holding in his bile. He felt sick, sick, sick. Maybe Crowley was right. There was no place awful enough for this thing, Hell didn't even come close.

He shut his eyes against the onslaught of a sudden memory as a scream left his lips.

***

Castiel stood alone, frustrated in his efforts to find the information he needed thanks to Dean's sudden, inexplicable urge to do the exact opposite of what he told him to do. No, he had to admit, this wasn't entirely unexpected, but it always seemed to hit him with that insane note of surprise that while anticipated also irked him. If one wanted a Dean Winchester to do something for them and follow explicit instructions as to how, one had to label each component with its direct opposing force. If he told Dean to turn left, Castiel knew the man would turn right. If he said, 'Don't let go of my hand', he knew Dean would let go. With every decision, a new possibility was formed and Dean could always be counted on to take the extreme.

So, Castiel sighed with his usual resignation and journeyed into the further periphery of Crowley's soul, its boundary not so huge that he couldn't find Dean again easily. His lack of honesty in this did bother him, but as he had reasoned to himself, Dean made every simple action more complex than it needed to be and he had to adjust accordingly. It was simply a matter of understanding someone, and moving forward with those concepts in mind. 

Crowley's soul was strangely void of the usual chaos he found in human subjects, but Castiel knew this had more to do with hiding the more unpleasant memories and aspects of his past self, and one couldn't do this without a few good vaults in place. There was the usual detrius of Hell strewn about. A torn liver here. A miserable clump of dusty fury there. Yet, despite all his time in Hell, Crowley's soul was remarkably tidy, a sign that Castiel self assuredly took to mean he was very much on the right track. He journeyed down a red corridor that gradually faded into a yellowed wallpaper hue, the door it ended at pristine and white. A new addition. Castiel shrugged his trenchcoat onto his shoulders into a more comfortable position and, ever so gently so as not to alert Crowley as to his heavenly presence, Castiel used his fingertips to nudge the door open.

He found himself in a very large immaculate library, the books lining the shelves perfectly catalogued and arranged according to Crowley's own system of importance. He passed by one rather large area that was labelled 'grievances', a section which was easily two hundred volumes. He picked up one of the leather bound books at random and opened it, reading some of the passages on various pages. 'Arnold Heyweather–Didn't say good-bye to me when I hung up the phone–December 3, 4:15pm, 1975', 'Charles Penny–Cursed at me when I sent the hell hounds to take his soul.–November 14, 7:45, 1876.', 'Sam Winchester–Didn't pay for his french fries and I got stuck with the tab.–March 13, 2010.' Castiel frowned over these, thinking that though Crowley was fairly organized for a demon, he had a problem with indexing under the proper headings. He himself would have placed them under 'perceived slights', but then, Crowley was obviously harsher in his outlook. 

This did, however, give him an insight into how Crowley might hide a certain file that Castiel knew had to be hidden here, one that listed the name of the angel who had allowed Fergus McLeod's murderer access to Heaven. If such petty things as these listed were under 'greivances', perhaps there was a section labelled 'gross malfeasences against my person' and hidden within these various offences was the arrangement catalogued. But there was a nagging understanding within Castiel that said this route would not be so obvious. He cast a glance towards the towering stack of books marked 'contractual experiences: positive' which was easily three thousand miles high, and then, on the top row beside it in significantly less numbers were about three small volumes marked 'contractual experiences: negative'. Curious, Castiel took one of the 'positive' books off the shelf and read through a gruesome contract for a successful wealthy tyrannical chef and the method by which his soul was acquired (after screaming at his sous chef for not chopping an onion brunoise he accidentally tripped and fell into the fryer) and the subsequent tortures in Hell (forced to pour coffee and cater sandwiches to demons with complex gluten allergies for all eternity). Crowley's emotions and thoughts on the matter were outlined in all their intimate glee over this arrangement, the pride he took in his own creativity and work envious. "The demon Zoraster informed me that spelt flours are not entirely gluten free. Punishments were duly metered out by his group. It's not often I'm proud of demons, and this day must be marked as exceptional. I shall be sure to give them an extra muffin free of charge. Made of rye flour, of course. Unpleasant on the palate, and tasting vaguely of turnips, but that's the price of one's gut being picky."

He put the volume back where he found it and picked up the middle one labelled 'negative' and flipped through its pages. Before he could get a good look at the words written within it, a thin slip of nearly transparent blue paper fell out of it. Frowning, Castiel picked it up, its size about the width and depth of a notecard, the flimsy paper seeming to be made of some sort of onionskin. Its weight was familiar as he held it and, feeling somewhat triumphant, Castiel knew he had what he was looking for. He tucked the delicate blue paper into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat and quickly replaced the volume back on the shelf before returning to the ground floor of Crowley's inner library.

It was when he was half-way between 'annoyances' and 'miserable broodings' that he found a nearly invisible volume, its size so slight it couldn't be more than a pamphlet. Curious, Castiel pulled it out and was quite surprised to see it labelled as 'happy'. More curious still was the word emblazoned in gold on the centre of the front cover, its significance not lost on the angel.

'Simplicio'.

***

Dean was hopelessly lost. Disturbing as it was to be forced to journey through one's own soul, it was nothing compared to wandering the corridors of experience of someone who you not only didn't like but who had the potential to make your hereafter the worst version of Hell you could possibly imagine. Dean figured he had a pretty good imagination, and he certainly had a lot of his own inner hell to draw from, but Crowley–this guy really has some issues. After stumbling past some fond memories of torture sessions past, Dean had finally found a peaceful spot somewhere off-centre, the room weirdly sparse and containing one completely out of place ice cream parlour freezer. It was empty, save for one ice cream–a single, large scoop on a sugar cone. It was hot in the room, and stuffy, and though the ice cream was under lock and key, the key was already sitting in the lock just waiting for someone to turn it.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. He scratched the back of his head. He knew this had some kind of significance for the soul he was residing in, but he was kind of hungry since he hadn't had anything to eat in the last three hours, and it was hot in here, and that looked like organic vanilla. It had to be some memory that Crowley held dear, and Dean's own memories of carnivals past and hot summer afternoons full of hamburgers and rollercoasters intruded on the scene, and damn, he was hungry and who knew how long Castiel was going to take to find him. Besides, if he was looking for something that was locked away in Crowley's subconcious what better ruse would there be than in an ice cream in a tiny room? It wasn't like he could pocket this information, he was just going to have to take it into himself, and well, there was only one way to do that.

He turned the key in the lock and slid open the glass panel, his hand reaching in and grabbing the ice cream. The sugar cone was slightly sticky and ice cream began dripping the minute he had it in his grip, but no matter, it looked appetizing enough and a quick lick confirmed his suspicions. Really good, organic vanilla, like Ben & Jerry used to make. It began to drip down the sides and he quickly licked it, then slowed into circles making sure it had a good, solid foundation. 

He did this for a while as he left the room and began searching anew for Castiel. The ice cream was a welcome reward after all that disturbing imagery, and it sure did taste good, the cool sensation a welcome balm on his tongue, its sweetness coursing through him as he swallowed it down.

Dean continued searching for another fifteen or so minutes until he finally turned a corner at the same time Castiel did, and he waved at him as he took another long lick across the surface of his now nearly depleted ice cream. "Cas! Over here, I think I got something."

Castiel approached him with a puzzled frown marring his features. "I found what I was looking for," he said, confident. "I told you not to let me out of your sight."

Dean shrugged. "We're back here together now, so what's the problem?" Damn, did Crowley have a fever or something? It was getting hotter in this place by the second. He took another long lick of ice cream. 

Castiel stared at him.

"What are you doing?"

Ice cream dripped over his fingers and he licked it off. "We're wandering around Crowley's soul, what do you think we're doing?"

"No. I mean that." Castiel pointed at the ice cream. "What are you doing with that?"

"Oh." Dean smacked his lips. "It was in a room back there." He pointed, vaguely, in its direction. "I was kinda hungry. Why are you looking at me all pissed off for? It was just sitting there, it wasn't really locked up or nothing. Here." He offered the last few bites of it to Castiel who backed away. "You can finish it off."

"Dean," Castiel said, eyeing the Winchester carefully, "that is not what you think it is."

Dean had just popped the last of it in his mouth and quickly brushed off his hands on the thighs of his jeans. He paused at Castiel's shocked scrutiny.

"What do you mean?"

His hands still felt sticky. The more Castiel stared at him, the more he started feeling kind of sick.

"What do you mean, Cas?" he asked. 

Nah. He didn't mean...Nah.

Did he?

He got his answer more clearly than the angel could ever have explained it. A furious, red faced, wall crumbling Crowley barrelled down the corridor after them, fire spitting out from his shoulders in ferocious lines. His face was a twisted mask of hatred. When he shouted, the walls of his soul shook and cracked from the impact.

Dean held up his palms–See? Nothing here.

"Dude...Let me explain..."

"GET! OUT!"


	9. Chapter 9

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS–chapter nine

"You had absolutely no right! Do I have to hang up a bloody sign?" A furious Crowley beat at his chest with his fist. "No Tresspassing!"

Castiel fixed Crowley with a steely glare, the angel refusing to compromise. "On the contrary, it was imperative that I investigate, especially concerning the admission of an unworthy soul into heaven and your involvement. I found it unlikely an angel would consort with a demon, and from what I've discovered I was correct in that assumption."

Dean was still palming his jaw from where Crowley had hit him. He'd been shocked back into his body after both he and Castiel had been evicted, and before he could blink Crowley had balled up his fist and let him have it with as fast a right hook as he could muster. His knuckles still smarted a little from it, but it was Crowley's skull that was causing the most pain, the searing headache and sick feeling in his gut as much a symptom of a soul invasion as Bobby's rotgut hangover. "I thought it was just an ice cream," Dean said, again, and Crowley wished, with all he had in him, that he could transport his torture dungeon right here, right now, and let Dean Winchester know in no uncertain terms what he thought of that excuse.

"Look, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," Dean said. Bullocks, was this idiot really still talking? If he wasn't currently fighting the urge to spew a year's supply of Bobby's special brew, Crowley was sure Dean would be nothing more than a smouldering pile of grey ashes right now. 

"It was an ice cream," Castiel corrected him.

"I know that, Cas," Dean said through clenched teeth.

"I don't understand. What do cigars have to do with anything?"

"I can't believe these words are actually leaving my mouth, but Crowley, I'm sorry, okay?" Dean replied, ignoring Castiel's still infuriating, questioning, slightly cocked to the right head. That stupid angel needed a bloody smashing! "It was an accident. I had no intention of doing anything even remotely...Look, let's just forget it, okay, it's not what any of this is about, and I'm not–I don't want to talk about it!"

"Good," Crowley said, nodding angrily at this. "Agreed."

"Then we're cool."

"No. Absolutely no measure or interpretation of 'cool' is happening between us. Ever."

"You don't have to be so damn dramatic, it was an honest mistake." Dean made a face as he furtively caught Crowley's steady glare. "Seriously, though...Vanilla?"

"Feck off!"

If he wanted to do more damage, it was going to be with an audience. Crowley inwardly groaned as Bobby and Sam ran their way down the basement stairs, the Sasquatch Winchester banging his head on an overhanging beam as he made his way down. He cursed a little over the new cut grazing his temple and he touched it with his fingertips as he marched ahead of Bobby to stand at his brother's side. "Dean, what the hell is going on? Bobby and I heard all this smashing and swearing, it was like a damn explosion down here!" He stopped short as he got a good look at Dean's current companion. "Cas? Oh my God, Cas, is that really you?" He stumbled forward only to stop himself, unsure of whether or not he was supposed to be happy or sad about this sudden reunion. Interesting, Crowley thought.

Bobby's contempt was obvious, or perhaps he had grown so used to angels coming back to life that seeing one that he didn't trust and didn't want to have much to do with in the first place didn't bother him the way it did his human companions. Besides, there were more important things crowding into Bobby's consciousness at present. Crowley could feel Bobby's ire behind him as the burly man looked on the wreckage of his seasoned moonshine bottles. He did feel a tad bad about that, and what little heart Crowley had felt a small tug at the sadness leaving Bobby's own soul as he put a voice to his loss. "Balls," Bobby muttered.

"I'll replace them," Crowley quickly promised him.

"Forget it. Had some of these bottles since I was sixteen and thirsty." Bobby smouldered beneath his baseball cap. "They won't be the same." He crossed his arms and stood beside Crowley, an unexpected ally against a trio of stupid. "What have you idjits done now?"

Leave it to the dumbwit Dean to tattle first. "Crowley has a soul." If he'd offered up the message in a sing-song voice it couldn't be more childish and irritating. 

"A soul?" Bobby repeated, puzzled. He gave Crowley the same 'What now?' glare that he'd given his adopted Winchesters, and though he knew Bobby didn't have any special powers of any stripe that damn rotgut of his was doing all kinds of terrible things to Crowley's insides. He swallowed trying to keep it all together as Bobby asked "Whose?"

"His own," Castiel replied.

"Newsflash, he's a demon, he doesn't have one," Bobby stated. He turned his fierce, gruff scrutiny onto Crowley. "Right?"

Of course he wasn't going to answer, this was his existence they were talking about, and it was as precious and fragile as every one of those broken brown bottles that lay littered at thier feet. Crowley's reluctance to answer him said volumes, and the former King of Hell had his own response to Bobby's insistence. "Bullocks," he muttered.

"He not only has a soul, he arranged for a corrupted one to have access to heaven, possibly at the expense of his own ascension. I don't have all the details as to that transaction yet." Castiel set his jaw, working over the problem with confidence. "But I will soon."

"I don't get it, what does it matter?" Sam asked. He shrugged over the shocked silence, his bruised brow smarting him. He was the more intelligent of the brothers Grimm, and Crowley was sure with a little bit of prodding he'd figure it all out for himself before anyone had a chance to tell him. "If he's got a soul, then he's not really a full demon." There, just like that. A little more, Sasquatch Sam, Crowley thought, you can do it, I know those tiny gears are kicking in, giving a little inch there of insight, a little nudge here of background knowledge. He blinked his lazy, giant's eyes at Crowley, his face squinted into a tortured, confused pantomime of understanding. "He's not an angel. He's not a demon. He was human once. So...What does that make him? He's the King of Hell, so that means he has *something* to offer. I mean, Hell is considered a punishment, right? Someone has to meter that out...So...He's doing a job." Sam shook his head and Crowley was sure he could hear rocks beat against each other. "If he sent someone to Heaven he wasn't supposed to, and then descended to Hell instead, I'd say that was a self sacrifice. And that sacrifice had to be made to prove a point, so he had to know he was right." Sam's mouth twisted into a confused sneer. "What is he, some kind of perverted version of a Saint?"

"Bingo! Presto! Oh damned if this isn't the most exciting thing I've been a part of since the beginning of creation! I'm telling you, I had bets going on in my own mind about this being some crazy, mixed up game of Lucifer's, some mindfuck leftover on the corporeal plane to just screw with us, but to know that I'm standing here, right now, in a human *basement* of all places, not four feet away from a *martyr*! I mean, really, someone pinch me, I can't possibly have this kind of astonishing fortune!" Balthazar clapped his hands together, staring at the collection of people in Bobby's basement with a mixture of naked awe and incredulation. "A *martyr*! Incredible! Now things are really going to get wild!"

***

It was supposed to be an interrogation but Balthazar was ruining everything. He sat beside Castiel, who was doing his best to play Bad Cop and was failing miserably thanks to his old academy chum's constant exclamations. "The last time I hung out with martyrs I forgot my name, vomited onto a rack and watched one guy laugh his ass off while he had his limbs torn off by horses. I'm telling you, Cas, if you try to get a martyr to tell a lie, he'll chop off his own tongue, fry it, eat it in front of you and then give you his middle finger to lop off and take as a souvenir while he slowly bleeds to death to prove his point." Balthazar grinned as he pulled up a chair and set himself beside Castiel, giving himself a good front row seat with Crowley. "Tell me, my good fellow, do you know Aggie? Absolutely bonkers, she was, lopped her own tits off and served it to the king on a plate because she wouldn't return his amorous intentions, which is code for being him being a wanker. On a plate, like two fried eggs, sunny side up. Now *that's* what I call being a badass!"

"Balthazar, why are you still here?" Castiel gave his brother a withering glare. "You're supposed to be in Hell."

This, of course, piqued Crowley's interest, since while he wasn't exactly in love with the place, he did still feel a certain residual responsibility and he'd be damned if some angel was going to go in there and start messing with his desk. Which, sadly, is exactly what Balthazar had been doing.

"I'm all caught up, no worries," he said, perching his feet onto the edge of Bobby's desk. Crowley fought the urge to push them off. "A bit of an issue with those demons, though, they're thinking with no one reigning in Hell they've got a free ticket to anarchy. Bit dim, though, aren't they? If it were me, I'd be on the first elevator up heading for an impromtou promotion while the chaos was going on, but these things are just mindless little minions, nothing at all going on in the thought processes. You wouldn't believe the amount of sluts banging on that office door day and night, wanting to get some angel action, I mean really, it's quite embarassing on their part if you ask me. Not that I'm not obliging. But it does get tiresome, so I can see, Crowley, why you quit." Balthazar scraped the heel of his shoe on the corner of Bobby's desk. "I had to rearrange a bit of the decor as well. Bit depressing, all that pristine cleanliness, I'm more of an organic being. Just terrible, all those files and, you know, work. It's not my style. Contracts by the hundreds, every day, it's just a misery. Don't know how you do it, I can only get through a dozen or so before I'm bored off my perch. Myself, I just pick the thicker files at random and then shred the rest, it's better that way." 

He gave Crowley a concentrated grin, and the former King of Hell longed to wipe it off his face. He was set to give him a good retort, but, as usual, Balthazar refused to let him get a word in. "I have to say, you aren't what I was expecting. Bit more brain than brawn, not like most of the martyrs I've partied with in the past. That little problem of yours? I'm the one who took care of that, seeing as how Cas is a bit banished upstairs at present. Real piece of nasty that putrid thing, couldn't stop confessing to me, and I have to say, you really did earn your stripes here, my good fellow. I chopped him up into stew sized chunks hoping you'd cook him proper, but you just took off and left him rotting in that burlap sack. Don't get me wrong, I'm not criticizing your methods, but I'm just saying, it really puts a damper on the place, having this wiggling, moaning thing sitting in the middle of a torture chamber." Balthazar raised a brow and placed a thoughtful finger to his lips. "Though, perhaps you have a point there. It could be quite unnerving, having something just sitting there suffering and you can't quite identify what it is. Leaves plenty to the imagination. But, here is the rub, as I've said, demons are wickedly stupid. I don't think they'd understand that subtlety."

He was about to say much, much more, but Castiel put a stop on him, dragging him out of the office and into Bobby's kitchen, where a full on argument arose, one with Balthazar spewing as many words as he could in as short a period of time and Castiel offering single, fragmented sentences that were all facts and no emotion. Castiel's brother was an absolute nightmare of long winded diatribes, and it was clear that Castiel's quiet patience was the only thing that created a link between them. 

Bobby entered the room, his arms crossed over his burly chest. Crowley reached into the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out a surprise bottle of sambuca. He poured himself a shot and downed it, grimacing as the heat hit him. "Horrible stuff," he said, and Bobby nodded.

"I hear you got a bit of a rat problem," Bobby said.

Crowley hesitated before answering him. "You could say that."

"At least it's sitting in a burlap sack. Easy enough to get rid of."

"I imagine for you, it would be." Crowley sat back in his chair, keeping a sharp eye on the busy angels in the kitchen, Balthazar's mouth working so fast it was difficult to see his lips move. "Tell you what–If I give you a key to the place, do you mind cleaning up a bit for me? I wouldn't mind getting back to check on the wreckage, if only for old time's sake."

"Does this mean you're moving out of my basement?"

"After a good fumigation? Absolutely."

"Consider it a favour, not a deal." Bobby narrowed his eyes on Crowley. "Which means you owe me one. Like safe passage back."

Crowley rolled his eyes, hating the way Bobby Singer had learned how to read the fine print. He handed him a silver skeleton key, which the hunter took with caution. "Just lock up when you leave," Crowley warned him. "I wouldn't want anything finding its way out."


	10. Chapter 10

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS–chapter ten

"I don't have to talk to him at all. I'm sure all the information we need is on here." Castiel showed Balthazar the small slip of blue paper he had stolen from Crowley's soul-files. Balthazar took it from him, handling it as though it were made of a thin sheet of ice and could shatter at any second. "I believe it to be a contract. It's been heavily encrypted, but it won't be impossible to decipher."

Balthazar held it up to the small light affixed to the top of the window just above Bobby's kitchen sink. "I don't know, Cas," he said, doubtful. "Are you sure you are doing the right thing?"

"A corrupted soul has no place in Heaven. You know as well as I that such a thing cannot be permitted. The fabric of our entire existance depends upon it."

"As usual," Balthazar said, but he was still nervous. He cast a glance in Crowley's direction, and Castiel followed it. "I just can't imagine what would possess someone to deny their martyr status, and especially their reasons for it." Balthazar smoothed down his shirt, the thoughts he was following putting him ill at ease. "Just be careful. I know we've had our differences in the past, but I do care about you, and despite everything you are still my brother. I don't know about you, but I'm getting very tired of always being in the middle of keeping the universe glued together. For once I wish it could just be a matter of personal self preservation. But, I suppose, one can't be the orchestrator of one's own destiny. At least, that isn't an angel's priviledge." He gave Castiel a firm grip on his shoulder before moving on. "Take care, my brother. In the end, I know you will do what's required of you."

With a tense flutter, Balthazar was gone, leaving Castiel alone in the kitchen, the blue piece of paper held in his hand. He frowned over it, as well as something Balthazar had said, the two concepts coalescing the longer he stared at the blank page. He tucked it back into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat, being careful not to bend it or mar it in any way. He glanced into the room where Bobby's desk was pushed against the far wall, a rather morose figure seated behind it, an empty shot glass now in front of him. Dean was nowhere to be found, likewise Bobby and Sam. Castiel put his hands deep into the pocket of his trenchcoat and with steps that were heavy with uncertainty he approached Crowley. No, he wasn't sure this was the right tactic to use, and perhaps it was even a little cruel. But the facts were, a terrible travesty of justice had taken place and Crowley had been the one to put himself right in its epicentre. What happened from here was merely fallout.

With a movement so quick Crowley couldn't see it, Castiel plucked a book off of Bobby's nearby library shelf and handed it to Crowley. 

Crowley frowned, taking it from him. "What's this?"

"I've realized I don't need your assistance in this matter, so there is no need for an interrogation. My curiosity over why you have gone to these lengths to allow such a thing to happen has no bearing on its outcome." He watched as Crowley puzzled over the torn, yellowed paperback, the corners nibbled by Bobby's vermin tenants. "I figured you could use some reading material while I decoded your contract with your as yet unnamed angel accomplice. It is an English translation, so you can understand more of it than 'Simplicio'."

Crowley thumbed through the book, his mood a bit too quiet for Castiel's liking. Perhaps he had done something wrong? He stood tense beside the desk, trying his best to interpret the man's next move. The blue paper in the side pocket of his trenchcoat had the angel's name on it, Castiel was sure of it, and it was going to take a while to figure it out. Or not. The truth was, he could have figured it out by now, but he'd been avoiding the task, his recalcitrance hinging on his one, immutable vice. Curiosity. A human corruption that had crept into his own being, its taint permanent. It was this same fault that had him watching Crowley's reaction to the book intently, because though he'd seen the word 'happy' inscribed on its label, written in faded black pen and the pamphlet neatly tucked away between two massive tomes, he had no real understanding of what that word was supposed to mean for the man sitting in front of him at present. 

So, it was with some uncomfortable surprise that Castiel witnessed Crowley's misty-eyed perusal of the book, his fingertips trembling slightly as he held it.

"You are one bloody bastard," he quietly said to Castiel.

"I can get you a copy that is in much better condition," Castiel said.

"I've already read the damned translation, that's got nothing to do with it." Crowley tossed the book aside, his face red with shame and anger. "I hate you. I hate your santimonious face and your judging attitude and your sick version of what you think justice and the 'right' thing is. Haven't figured it out yet, have you? There is nothing but anarchy in this life. Good people don't go to Heaven and bad people get to do what they want to whoever they want and there's nothing but me in between it picking up what little shreds and bits I can, like some beggar. Don't you dare sigh and shake your head at me, I'm not in the wrong here! I did what I had to do to survive and there was no way I was sharing my Hell with that putrid piece of garbage! How I hate you and your compassion forged out of duty–You and all the rest of you, you think you know Hell. Imagine my surprise when I arrived there and found it wasn't so bad, it was easier than what I was used to."

"Yet you arranged for your tormentor to have your place in Heaven. The man who tortured you and destroyed you. You allowed his corruptive prescence into the celestial and sat in the depths of Hell laughing over it. I don't understand you, Crowley. Do you truly hate the concept of Grace this much?"

For once, Crowley had nothing to say. He sat brooding across from Castiel, his stubborn misery torturing the air around them and setting every wayward emotion into cinders as they fell between himself and Castiel. "It was pleasant," he said, finally. "That's all. Just..Pleasant."

"What was?"

"A cup of tea. Company." Crowley steeled his jaw as he glared at Castiel. "No expectations, no worrisome underlying motivations. I know you can't appreciate these simple things, and it meant nothing to you. Such moments are fleeting, if they exist at all. They sit in coffee cups and empty, blue beaches. I don't expect you to understand."

But Castiel did understand, for wasn't his own favourite place a tiny section of Heaven, in a garden, where an autistic man flew a kite, his joy so pure it created a perfect moment? Castiel frowned as he looked on Crowley, wondering how it was this creature believed himself so seperated from perfection. Were all martyrs like this, he wondered. Suffering became what was comfortable, and moments that Crowley described so rare they were spectral memories, a transparent haze wherein some microscopic version of happiness resided in its tiniest of molecules.

He took out the blue piece of paper from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk between himself and Crowley. Crowley refused to look at it, opting instead to cross his arms and stare up at the symbols that kept him trapped within Castiel's presence. Castiel nudged the piece of paper closer, an action that made Crowley cringe.

"What were the terms of this transaction?" Castiel asked him.

"I thought there wasn't going to be an interrogation."

"There won't be. I'm only asking you because it saves me the trouble of decryption, which you know is inevitable. Bobby's furnishings are not comfortable and I know you are eager to get back to Hell. Though I disagree with how it happened, I know that at present you are the right one for the job. Balthazar can be trusted to fill in when it's absolutely necessary but he can also be frivolous and chaotic." Castiel hesitated, the blue piece of paper between them seeming to hold an incredible amount of frustration and fury. "I wish it did not have to be this way. After what Fergus McLeod suffered, you do deserve a place in Heaven, and it is a gross injustice you have imposed upon yourself." Castiel sighed, his palms pressing into the wood of Bobby's desk at Crowley's continued silence. "Have it your way. I don't have the time to waste watching you sit here feeling sorry for yourself."

Castiel was halfway out of the room when Crowley shouted "It was an Indulgence!"

Castiel paused, thinking this over, but it was Crowley who filled in the blanks. "Bloody bastard angels, you can't trust a one of them. I paid him, with all that I had, every asset, every coin to make sure that monster got his way into Heaven. Why wouldn't I? It was obvious I was going to Hell, and I bloody well wasn't about to share any real estate with that sick piece of human waste! He promised me it was a sealed contract, never to be broken for all eternity. That I had no worries, nothing could send that bastard out of his blue Heaven and down into the depths below–the lying sack of shit!"

"That isn't possible," Castiel said. "You have never been a believer and the practise of giving a priest an Indulgence, a payment to assure a place in Heaven, was stricken by the church."

Crowley shrugged. "I was dead at the time. It was about an hour after the Bishop had shown up with those bastards and...Well, you know how that little visit turned out."

"You believed an angel of the Lord would have use for earthly possessions?"

Crowley was sheepish at this. "What was I supposed to think, mate? I figured it was all black and then nothing once the fire went out. I wasn't anticipating that a soul actually existed. Quite the bloody surprise, I can tell you." He picked up the blue piece of paper and, with a firm grip on it, he ripped the bogus contract in two. "The angel's name was Daniel," he said, the blue papers fluttering down like feathers onto the surface of Bobby's desk. "Tell him I want a refund."

***

A day trip to Hell could make anyone nervous, but both Sam and Bobby had special reasons for why they felt so trepedatious in Crowley's torture dungeon on the second level. The place was frought with the knowledge that any second they could run into some old, unwelcoming friends. It was bad enough meeting demons on the home turf, but this was their realm, and Bobby knew they were at a serious disadvantage should one cross their path and call them out. He held onto the key Crowley had given him with a firm grip, sweat from his palm smudging the surface. "We get in, we do the job, we get out," Bobby reminded Sam, who nodded in agreement. It wasn't enough for Bobby. "Did you hear me? No straying off the path, we get in, we dump that load where it belongs on the ground floor and we ride all the way back to the top. I ain't joking around here, boy. No pit stops, no curious looks at some piece of crap moaning in the corner, we get in, we get out. Do I need to repeat myself again?"

"No," Sam said, giving Bobby a face.

"Good, because I'm not saving your sorry stupid ass if you decide to forget my advice."

Sam kicked at the twitching bag that sat in the middle of the room, the bloodsoaked burlap stinking of rotted bile. Sam held his sleeve at his mouth, holding in his sick. "This thing is gross. How did Heaven not notice something this rotten was squatting in it?"

"Beats me," Bobby said, and adjusted his cap. Beads of sweat lined his brow. "Let's just get going."

They didn't want to touch the sack, and getting too close to it made both of them gag. Sam grabbed a set of iron tongs and pulled it into the elevator, the cramped space a real funhouse of torture with that thing sitting wet and slopping between them. Bobby held his breath and hit the final, un-numbered button on the elevator console.

"You sure that's where this thing is supposed to go?" Sam asked.

"Bottom floor for a bottom feeder, that's what I say," Bobby replied. He watched the numbers descend with an increasing sense of dread. "I wouldn't take too long a look at that lake of fire down there, if I were you, son." The twitching bag seemed to respond to Bobby's voice, and he retched as it tried to inch its way towards his heel. "Something tells me we ain't gonna get out of this without a few more scars on our souls."


	11. Chapter 11

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS–chapter eleven

The lowest level of Hell was more cliche than Bobby expected, and both he and Sam, with the vile bag of putrescence between them, stepped out onto the melted shoreline, the glass rocks crunching beneath their weight. They should have been happy about the express reprieve the elevator had provided because the desolated loneliness of the place spoke of long, suffering years, the unforgiving, craggy, hot surface steaming its way through millions of miles. The lake of fire, such as it was, was strangely anticlimactic, its surface rippling with molten lava, a tortured scream extending long across the bubbling caps that were its waves. The white elevator doors shut behind them, and Sam winced. He touched his fingers where he had bumped his head on a beam in Bobby's basement, the bruise an ugly purple hue. "So where you do think Lucifer's cage is?" Sam dared to ask, sleeve at his mouth to filter out the burning sulfur that tainted the air.

"At the bottom of that lake, I'm guessing," Bobby said. His wide shoulders were pushed back as he pulled the burlap sack closer to the edge of the lake of fire. Sam asking that question put him on edge, and he was eager to just follow his own advice and get the job done. He didn't like the way Sam kept staring into the lake, as though trying to find the outline of that terrible place where his soul had been used as a red football tossed and kicked by not one, but two vengeful fallen angels. It was a soul scab Bobby sure as hell wouldn't have picked at, but Sam wasn't the type to leave anything alone. They had to get out of here and quick. "I feel like my feet are made of lead weights. Come on, son, help me out here."

"The sack seems lighter," Sam said, grateful, the iron tongs prodding it towards the edge of the lake. Both he and Bobby stood on either side of it, knowing what had to be done, but neither willing to do it.

"I'll take the bottom, you take the top, and we'll heave it over and in and stand back from the splash."

"I'm sorry, Bobby, but no. I am not touching that thing with my bare hands. Ugh, the*stink*!"

"I ain't got no magic wand, in case you didn't notice."

Sam gagged and made a face and after a few hesitating tries, he managed to get a good grip on the sides of the burlap bag while Bobby grabbed the two corner ends and heaved it up. It was suprisingly light now, and Bobby was worried the lack of leverage wouldn't send it good and deep into the lake, but no matter, the job was getting done and that was all that counted. "We'll toss it on three," he said. They swung it back and forth with as much force as both of them could muster. "One. Two..."

The cord holding the sack closed came loose and as the bag fell over the lake on 'Three' chunks of its contents rained down on the shoreline near Sam's feet. "Dammit!" Sam shouted, his palms wiping the slimey remnants from his jeans, only for the smear to make him genuinely sick. "Bobby, we can't just leave these pieces here, we have to pick them up and throw them in."

"Like hell I will," Bobby said, marching towards the elevator. "Did what I said I would, and I'm not sticking around any longer." He held the key to the elevator firm in his grip, and he cast a glance over his shoulder at Sam, who was still going after the little meaty pieces, tossing a few into the lake and losing sight of others. Bobby saw a chunk grow hair thin spidery legs and run off along the shore, a shred of flesh trailing behind it. It blindly scrambled across the rocks before falling into the lake and burning into ash. He quickly put the key into the lock and opened the elevator door. "Never mind, it'll take care of itself, get over here."

"We can't just leave these bits here, they could escape."

"Trust me, this is the very last stop for every damned thing, they ain't going nowhere."

It was a slow effort for Sam, the weight of his feet tugging at him until the glass sands decided they had a new victim to claim, the tiny pebbles cascading over his workboots, turning every step into a treacherous wade through quicksand. Sam stumbled, then continued onward, every muscle and sinew in his body pulling him towards the elevator where Bobby was already safely waiting inside. The doors began to close, and Bobby grabbed at it, trying to keep it open, but they continued to shut. Bobby's panicked face beckoned Sam to hurry, and with one, final push, he managed to fall into the interior of the elevator, but not before losing one of his workboots. The elevator door slammed shut on it, neatly hacking the empty boot in two.

"That was close," Sam said.

"What else is new?" Bobby hit the topmost button, which he figured would take him into Crowley's office and then a random door that would take him home. All he cared about right now was getting that jackass out of his basement so he could enjoy a cold beer in peace. Between Sam's near death experience and Bobby's sweating need to get back to his version of normal, neither of them noticed the tiny pair of shrivelled lips that had crept into the elevator with them, its saliva morphing into glistening insect legs that latched onto the hem of Sam's jeans. 

***

"An angel named Daniel, huh?" Dean took another swig of his beer, his eyes steeled as he stared down at Crowley who was still trapped beneath the symbols above Bobby's desk, the thin, yellowed paperback perused with disinterest. Dean pulled up a chair, his company less than welcome but what choice did a man of his ruined calibre now have, with all of his secrets exposed, his life laid out naked in front of morons, like this one, who droolled in his sleep. "Cas and Balthie are taking care of business, I guess. Heaven can't have angels going around stealing people's paycheques. I can't believe you fell for that one, that's like getting sold a bridge or something. Got any swampland in Hell you're selling cheap?" He pointed at the symbols painted above Crowley's head. "Kind of weird, isn't it, how a guy's headspace can get in the way. You're sitting under all those squiggles and lines thinking they mean something. Well, guess what?" Dean smudged one of the symbols, the chalky substance getting caught under his nails. "I just used plain old acrylic paint that Bobby had lying around the shed. Not lamb's blood, like the spell called for." Dean gave Crowley a smug smile. "Guess you been faking it for so long you forgot what the real thing's supposed to look like."

"I assure you, there is nothing false about what I am capable of," Crowley warned him.

But the annoying smile on Dean's face wasn't so easily swayed, and as he took another gulp of beer Crowley had to admit the elder Winchester had a point. It hadn't been easy hiding his true self, keeping his soul hidden from other demons, his mind constantly working over what spells worked and how and who deserved this punishment more over that one, and it was an exhausting existence, one full of balances of cause and effect, with one act being redemptive while the same act by someone else was what sealed their fate in his dungeon. True, he'd been given the job on request, and the powers that came with it, but now all of it was brought into question thanks to Castiel's misguided attempt to do the right thing. If he returned to Hell now he wasn't sure he would still have the ability to move about the Earth as he was accustomed to, plucking out scavenging souls who sold their most treasured commodity to the highest bidder–Otherwise known as himself. 

"I could test it," he thought. "While that little maggot sits in that armchair I could stoke up a fire in that fireplace, I could snap my fingers and turn Dean into a human candle that can burn either slowly or quick, depending upon my whim. A blue flame or a bloody orange cinderblock, it's all up to me."

He raised his hand, his fingers itching to give them a good testing.

"It couldn't have been easy," Dean said.

Crowley paused, hand stopped in mid-air. He dropped it to his side when Dean turned to face him. "What wasn't?"

"Making a deal like that. Giving up Heaven itself just to prove a point and not knowing what came next. I get it, dude. The universe is a bag of shit. Angels are dicks, and Hell is just a footnote in one long story about suffering and as for God, who knows what that Guy's up to, He's already picked up His last cheque and moved on. Doesn't leave the middle child, that being us, much to go on. But to give up Heaven, just to protest the whole mess–That took balls." Dean stared into the empty fireplace, the spent ashes impotent in thier damp, grey prison. "I'm guessing your angel Daniel knew exactly what kind of bargain he was making with you. Allowing that kind of evil into Heaven while he lets your soul head for the basement, that's a protest all its own if you ask me. I don't know about this martyr business, no one gave me the Cliff notes, but I'm thinking you did get a pretty good deal out of it in the end. You got a nice comfortable office, enjoy all the perks of the earthly plane and get to slice and dice the guilty all you want. Must be real cathartic for you, considering what being alive was like."

Crowley bristled at this reminder that Dean had taken an uninvited walkabout around his soul. "It has its moments," he admitted. "Watching you worry yourself sick over your darling little brother and the constant torment that doing battle with Lucifer's minions has created does put a rather pleasant spin on things. Like a romantic comedy, really. Very entertaining."

"Play the sarcasm card all you want, facts are you're just as human as I am inside." Dean narrowed his gaze as he stared into the empty fireplace. "Truth is, if I was given the same choice, I would have taken it too."

"Oh, I get it, you want to be part of the martyr club, do you?" Crowley grimaced at this in distaste. "Honestly, what a miserable pack of wankers they are. They sit around in a bar in Heaven swapping scar stories and it always ends in someone getting an eye forked out over a vat of whiskey. Not a one of them have ever heard of a cocktail, let alone a decent pair of threads. Oh yes, they are a wild bunch as our friend Castiel's brother so succinctly put it, just add loutish and foul and pigheaded to their list of attributes. Before you even ask, no...I haven't met a one of them. But you can hear them all the way down to the second floor of that Hades suburb, especially that section on the north side. They never sleep and there isn't a screaming guitar riff they don't like." Crowley raised a brow. "Come to think of it, mate, maybe you should join their party. You'd fit right in."

Dean frowned at this. "Those were martyrs partying?" Dean shook his head, remembering. "I was getting the guts ripped out of me and I remember hearing 'Eye Of The Tiger' over and over again. I thought it was just part of the torture. I used to love that song, and now it makes me dry heave every time I hear it. I don't get it, you mean there's some kind of hole in the roof over there and Hell can't fix it?"

"Do I look like an urban contractor?"

"I'm just saying. Drywall, beams and soundproofing, it's not rocket science."

Crowley stared at him for a long moment. "It's Hell, Dean. There's no love. There's no rockets. There's no drywall."

Dean was clearly wanting to argue an insane point, but luckily Bobby and Sam fell into the room, their clean up mission in Hell complete. Crowley happily bounded out of his seat and held open his palm, eager to get back to business. A good scrub up with bleach followed by PineSol and a few thousand or so cans of air fresheners ought to do the trick. Lots of Lavender Ocean Breeze to kick the stench out. First things first was to get back his key. Bobby looked pale and kind of sick, clearly the effects of a job well done. 

"Good show, mate. Thanks for watering the plants. Hand her over."

But, as usual, nothing was quite that simple. Sam was still bent double, his palm over the injury on his forehead, the bruise pulsing and ugly as he dared to pull his arm away, revealing the pus lined slice that left a line of slime from his injury to his open hand. "Dean," Sam said, his eyes rolling back in his head as the bruise morphed into a set of thin, cracked lips, their grin lined with ugly yellow teeth. "I told Bobby. I told him we had to pick up all the pieces..."


	12. Chapter 12

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS–chapter twelve

They stood in the grey blank of the In Between, the stretch of nothingness muzzling Balthazar's usual chatter. He remained aloof from Castiel, his foot tapping against the rippling grey, their physical forms an intrustion against the onslaught of infinity. His brother and friend had a right to be nervous, Castiel thought, but he himself was steeled for battle, his sword ready to slide out from beneath the sleeve of his trenchcoat to meter out the justice that was so rightly owed. Balthazar may still have his doubts, but Castiel knew the toll such a deal from an angel could make and it had been a reckless, destructive choice. Daniel had tempted the very fabric of creation to rip itself apart.

"What do you know of him?" Castiel asked, but Balthazar only shook his head.

"He's young, that's obvious, and from what I could discover nothing more than some low level foot soldier, not even academy material if you get my meaning." Balthazar shifted where he stood, his concentration broken by every rippling invasion of his angelic pulse against the stark landscape. "Rumour has it he's fallen, and with this little stunt I'm guessing that's sealed it. I know he got my message, but you know how it is with these younger ones, they don't understand ceremony the way we do. He never answered my call. We can't be sure he'll show up."

"He will," Castiel said. 

Perhaps it was arrogant of him to be so self-assured, but Castiel knew the inner workings of the angelic mind, and a summoning by one of their bretheren was not to be ignored. He kept his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, his blue gaze staring out into the vast emptiness that surrounded himself and Balthazar, a wavering sense of confusion edging its way into his consciousness. This was what Daniel's actions were set to create, this land of In Between, an empty spot looking for a faith to fill it with its version of the hereafter. It was like a parking lot, Castiel thought. All it was missing were yellow lines and the lonely reach of a steel lamp post shining a cloudy spotlight onto damp tarmac.

They both heard the strike of a match. In the misty gloom both Castiel and Balthazar could make out the red ember in the distance, its approach taken in lazy strides towards them. As the black clad figure approached them, the waft of smoke hit Castiel betraying that it was no cigarette poised at the lean lips. The angel Daniel wore a leather jacket with tight black jeans, a Clash t-shirt proclaiming 'London Calling'. He had short, black spiky hair, and eyes so green and deep they rivalled any astroturf on a human golf course with impunity.

"This better be good," Daniel said, the halo of smoke curling around him with the scent of an acrid lawn. "I got places to be."

"Considering what you have done, being pressed for time is one symptom of a very serious crime." Castiel was the one who fixed him in his sights, with Balthazar holding back, unsure of this rebellious brother whom they knew nothing about. "You allowed putrescence into Heaven. You denied grace to a man who deserved it. You understood that this would rip the universe apart." Castiel's harsh blue eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself."

Daniel let out a small laugh at this, his brow raised at the lurking form of Balthazar who stood behind Castiel. "This is about that little tailor who could, isn't it? The one with the missing link thanks to that visit from his old friend, Bishop Corsicas?" He laughed at the way Castiel set his jaw, his mirth a poison in the air around them. "I don't know about you, but it looks like it's all worked out in the end. What did you think that poor miserable guy deserved...Heaven?"

"Denying a deserving human being Grace is not only a serious crime, it was a cruel omission," Castiel said.

"No." Daniel's green eyes flashed in the grey gloom. "What's cruel is a child, then a man suffering his entire existence thinking there's nothing at the end of it, nothing but a big blank space where he once was and wishing he'd been a blank space to start with. You guys, you're just so big on rules, but life on that Earthly plane, it doesn't follow them. It's all choices and other people's actions imposing on them. It's all personal." Daniel shook his head. "There I am, feeling like some shitty damned guardian angel watching him, and all I can think is the guy has a point. Best of all never to have been born, that's what the Sybils said, and Fergus had that philosophy in spades. His life had no value, and his death even less, and all because of one rotten piece of shit's faith that an innocent's suffering was what was going make Bishop Corsicas a wealthy, powerful jackass." 

Daniel took a long drag of his spliff, sending the smoke into Balthazar's choking face. "A black magic bishop. No way, man. I wasn't letting Corsicas get away with that. A small slice of heaven wasn't going to be enough for Fergus McLeod and there was no way I was going to let all that shit go down without something really special coming out of it." He gave Castiel a knowing grin. "Everyone thinks it's so black and white. Good versus evil. Someone suffers then they get their reward. But it's not like that. It's all random and strange and what someone calls heaven doesn't even come close to the possibilities still waiting." Daniel licked his lips and took another puff. "So I took some artistic license with the guy's hereafter. Big deal."

"You can't just walk out of Heaven and rewrite the rules!" Balthazar exclaimed.

"Oh, really?" Daniel said, sneering. "Looks like I just did."

"There are serious repurcussions," Castiel warned him. "You placed everyone on all planes in danger. You will be duly punished for your actions."

"So I get to suffer needlessly as well. We all get to suffer for rules that don't apply." Daniel finished his toke and tossing it into the vast grey nothingness. "So the circle remains unbroken. Give me a break. There is no circle. There is no map. It's all like Fergus McLeod believed, one stupid evil moron after another, living in a world named 'Simplicio'." His green eyes were filled with malicious mirth as he looked on his brothers. "You want to punish those who believe in evil? You give a suffering man that job. He'll make sure all that he's gone through is passed along, and he'll feel good about it. You wanted me to give Fergus McLeod his heaven? Trust me, 'bro, I already did."

Castiel was through arguing, and he was ready to meter out his accustomed justice in the form of his sword diving deep into Daniel's heart. But a sudden, stabbing pain in his chest interrupted his effort. He doubled over, fighting it, but it was to no avail. 

"I'm being summoned, " he explained to Balthazar, the pain of his refusal to go where he was needed making his eyes bulge and water. "You need to finish this."

"No," Balthazar stated.

Castiel gave his brother a tortured glare. "You must! Justice must be exacted, he cannot go free!"

"No," Balthazar repeated, quietly, his voice as soft as the grey around him. "No more of our brothers and sisters need to die, Cas. He made a mistake, leave it at that."

"He is unrepentant!" Castiel exclaimed, but he could only watch helplessly as a whistling Daniel sauntered out of the In Between, his form fading into the grey blanket as though he were a distant memory. "He is not of our member, he is lost to us!"

Balthazar didn't hear him. Castiel had been summoned, and the In Between had always been a weak point of reference. Before he could even explain to Balthazar where he was going, he found himself standing in Bobby's living room, a chaotic mess of emotions swirling in black lines throughout the crowded space. The symbol that had called him here had been hastily scribbled in lamb's blood above the fireplace mantle, and it was Bobby who told Castiel what happened.

"Sorry 'bout the interruption, but there's a serious problem here," he said, gesturing to Sam. "He just went crazy when he saw it. Screaming and howling and crying, never saw the like of it in anyone before. So scared he damn near pissed himself. I thought I seen everything there is to see but this here's got me damned spooked."

Castiel frowned as soon as Sam turned around, the familiar outline of the grimacing lips on his forehead giving the angel pause. When the mouth began spewing its poison, Castiel reached out and dug his fingers deep into Sam's flesh, tearing the offensive tumor off with one quick yank. The pulsing piece of flesh in his grip still tried to talk, but its voice was silenced as Castiel's grip burned the vicious remnant of evil to ashes in his palm. Sam was left with an ugly gash on his forehead, but it was better than the chatty alternative.

"Where is Crowley?" Castiel asked.

"Bobby already told you, he went crazy," Sam said. He let out a breath of air he didn't realize he'd been holding. "My God, Cas, some of the things that mouth said...It's not true, is it?" He winced in sympathy when Castiel refused to answer him. "My God."

"Crowley is in the basement, with Dean," Bobby said, keeping his eyes steeled on Sam. "Sam and I had enough of Hell for one day. Your turn." 

***

"Look, I get it, you're real upset." Dean held up his hands, doing all he could to signal he wasn't a threat, at least not now. "But you're going to blow up Bobby's house, and nobody wants that. I mean, yeah, he's got a rat problem, and there's issues with the plumbing and there's holes in the roof that need repairing and the electrical's a mess and...Scratch that, never mind the house, this is about you, Crowley. Dude, you need to calm down." Dean tried to reach out, to somehow soothe the tortured mess that Crowley had suddenly become, but his outstretched hand was brusquely swept away, residual flames from Crowley's fingertips burning Dean's knuckles.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The empty bottles of rotgut exploded into further shards, their remnants reduced to amber sand, the walls of the bomb shelter scorched. Dean tried to make his way out, but the metal door was red hot, the heat from it siphoning out all oxygen. "I'm going to cook in here," Dean thought, a sense of panic brewing within him. The books lined against the wall caught fire, as did the small cot, the interior now a raging inferno that lined Dean's lungs, burning his throat with sulfer and choking him with its otherworldly smoke. "Dude, quit it!" Dean shouted, but Crowley couldn't see him, not now, his own fury boiling inside of him so deep his eyes had become the windows of a furnace, flames licking out from them towards his cheeks.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

With one hand, Castiel arrested the flames and put them out. Smoke rose from the inert ashes of books, and though Dean could still feel the smarting heat from where his skin was burned, at least he was alive, yet again miraculously spared serious damage. Crowley was staring at Castiel with a mixture of what looked to Dean like hatred and fear, only for both emotions to vanish as the man crumpled into himself and began sobbing. Dean was grateful for it, even if it was strange that Castiel was the catalyst. At least they hadn't become a molten crater in the middle of Bobby's junkyard.

"I have taken care of the problem," Castiel said.

"Bullocks," Crowley spat. He rubbed at his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, but his tears wouldn't cease. "You lie like all the rest of them."

"That's not true," Castiel calmly said. 

"You went into my soul without asking."

"I had to make sure you had one." He took a step closer to Crowley, who did not back away. "The putrescence is now where it belongs. You will not be tormented by it again."

Crowley's eyes flashed fire. "Says you."

Castiel closed the remaining gap between them, standing very much in Crowley's personal space. "I have spent time in your employ for a while now, as well as being your adversary on occasion and your ally. You know of me from when you were Fergus McLeod. I must ask you, Crowley, have I ever been one to shirk my responsibilities?"

Crowley's ire dampened at this, his panic slowly subsiding, the close proximity of Castiel seeming to offer some respite. Dean had the uncomfortable feeling he was standing in the middle of a very private exchange, but he was still trapped in the bomb shelter, his efforts to leave hampered by the locked door. "If I tell you that you are no longer in danger it is because I have personally made sure of it. Do not doubt me, Crowley." Castiel cast a glance Dean's way, and the elder Winchester had to turn his head, stubborn resolve still over-riding his guilt. "I will go to any length to protect this universe and those who exist within it from destruction. That does include you."

Crowley tugged at the shirtsleeves of his jacket with a trembling hand, his voice so small Dean had to fight to hear him. "I lost a button," Crowley said around a choked sob, his strength completely evaporated. 

"Then we'll get another one."

"It won't be the same."

"Then we'll replace them all."

Uncertain, inch by nervous inch, Crowley leaned ever closer until finally his head rested on Castiel's shoulder, his face hidden in the crook of the angel's neck. Castiel draped his arm over the man's shoulders, his touch clearly welcome. An angel embracing a broken man. 

"What do you want to do, Crowley?" Castiel asked.

Crowley's voice was muffled, his need for Castiel's strength so severe he wouldn't dare let go. He took the lapels of Castiel's trenchcoat into his fists, his grip white-knuckled. "I want to go home," he said.

There was the flutter of a sparrow's wing, and they were gone.

Dean stood alone in the darkness of the bomb shelter, the toxic scent of burnt foam rubber lining his lungs. 

"Uh...Guys? I'm still down here." 

Silence.

"Cas?" He tried to open the bomb shelter door, but it was sealed shut thanks to Crowley's panicked welding job. "Crowley? Dammit!" He kicked the wall, the metal singing from the effort. At least that would alert Sam and Bobby, but it was going to be a long day with a blowtorch to get him out.

"Aw, c'mon!" Dean shouted into the dark.


	13. Chapter 13

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS—chapter thirteen

Warm winds cascaded across his senses, its clean, salt scent betraying where he was before he even had a chance to open his eyes. He blinked as he brought the peaceful vista into focus, the rush of soft tidal waves crashing against his shins. It took a few moments for him to realize he had a glass of scotch in his hand, the ice tinkling the only sound other than the whispering chorus of the ocean at high tide. He glanced down, his good leather shoes dug deep into the sand and water, his black trousers immersed nearly to his knees. Lines of salt marked that he'd been standing here for some time. He pulled his feet out of the sand and began the calm, wet trudge back to the stretch of white beach that hadn't yet been overtaken by the tide. He took a long sip of his very cold, very old scotch.

His jangled nerves properly settled, he cast his gaze onto a rather familiar flat rock, a basket with a bottle of Chablis and a single champagne glass greeting him, along with a folded beach umbrella propped next to it on the ground. A white card with glittering letters proclaiming Welcome Home caught his eye and, curious, Crowley picked it up and opened it, the familiar scrawl within giving his gut an uncomfortable punch. 

"Don't panic. It's just a little sliver of Heaven, nothing more. Never let it be said I don't know how to share. xx Bella"

Unlike Bella's cliff-face, however, this section of celestial beach had a set of steps leading away from it to the right. With his glass firm in hand, Crowley forced himself to journey upward, each step a tentative exercise in doubt. The last he'd remembered he'd been clinging tight to Castiel's trenchcoat, his heart in tatters, an embarassing situation to be in, certainly, and a vulnerability he was not about to indulge in further. A pleasant beach was nice enough, but he was eager to get back to work, his blade itching for some evil souls to render—If he still had a job to go to, that is. He cast one final glance at the pure blue skies, the brilliant hues of serenity assailing his senses. Heaven. Bloody bullocks. Bella meant well, but she was a right fool if she thought this was what was going to make him truly happy. He knew where he belonged. He'd find his way back to Hell if he had to vivisection a certain meddling angel to do it.

His thoughts on Castiel were interrupted as he made his way up the final step to discover he was at the back door of a rather antiseptic suburban home, its back end a wall of glass that would give a fantastic view of the ocean beyond it. He opened the sliding door and was immediately plunged into a quiet, spotlessly clean kitchen completely devoid of any clutter, the copper pots and pans gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. There was a coffeemaker bubbling on the black marble counter. He put his now empty scotch glass into the stainless steel sink and made his way through the rest of the house, curious as to how this kind of scrubbed, white cleanliness was supposed to make him feel at ease. His own style was significantly more gothic, with thick leather furnishings and roaring brick fireplaces that were the sole illumination in the dark. Not for him this washed out beige monstrosity. If Castiel had tried to build him a Heavenly prison he'd certainly missed the mark. He touched the white pillar that adorned the entranceway leading into the living room, his fingers leaving ashen smudges. Out of habit, he scrubbed the stain off with the sleeve of his suit jacket.

The living room was slightly less dull, but solely for the strange layout where several doors, a near dozen in all, were arranged in a semi-circle against the walls. There was a set of stairs leading to the second floor, where a similar set up was arranged, with many, many more doors, their number seeming to stretch into an infinity that spiralled outward and down into a neverending corridor. Crowley opened the one nearest the Swedish styled fireplace in the centre of the living room, and was quite suprised to see it led to his upper office in Hell. He closed the door and opened the one beside it, discovering to his shock that it opened into his beloved torture dungeon. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief and step in, only to be halted by a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I trust this arrangement will suffice," Castiel said.

Crowley bristled at this, not exactly keen to get back to the whole touchy feely business that had happened back in Bobby's basement. How bloody embarassing. He adjusted his tie and turned to Castiel, his shoulders squared. "The only arrangement I'm aware of is the one where you're squatting in my Hell so I put you on my work-to-rule program."

"I no longer have any wish to torment myself in Hell or serve you in it."

"'Ta for that. You weren't exactly employee of the month." 

Castiel gestured to the various doors, a sense of pride emanating from him that was irritating in its surety. "Every door leads to any place you wish, be they specific geographical spaces in Hell or journeys throughout the earthly plane. I believe this to be a much more efficient method of travel, as it does give you a central, hidden location for those times when you are not engaged with work."

Well, now, how very thoughtful, Crowley mused, his lips pursed in smug satisfaction as he surveyed the main floor of his most frequently visited lairs. He inspected the lower levels of the Hades suburb, quite surprised to find that the roof on the quadrant on the fourth floor was now repaired, the irritating partying of martyrs no longer intruding upon his unholy space. He closed the door and opened another which led into Bobby's basement, only to quickly shut it again. Best to leave that one alone, save for extreme emergencies.

He opened another door and found a television, a huge 70" HDTV mounted on the wall, with a comfortable black leather lay-z-boy situated in front of it. He went in with Castiel close behind him, his hand grasping the remote and turning the television on. Visions of Dean Winchester eating every brand of ice cream imaginable coursed across every channel. He hastily shut if off, but not before giving Castiel a dismissive shrug. "You have your version of pornography, I have mine," he assured the angel as he left the room.

"I have created this house as a hub for your efforts," Castiel further explained. He gave Crowley what approximated as a human smile. "I hope you like it."

"I don't suppose I have another choice."

"You can change the decor if you wish."

"It is a tad urban cliche in my opinion."

Crowley opted to sprawl on the comfortable couch in front of the roaring fire in the living room, his mood significantly brighter than it had been in a very, very long while. He patted the cushion beside him, bidding Castiel to partake of this human comfort, but the angel was content to stand beside the fire pit, his tie rumpled, the lapels of his trenchcoat still wrinkled from the clutch Crowley had so severely had on them back in Bobby's insufferable, stuffy basement. "It makes me satisfied to know you have some degree of contentment," Castiel said, and if the King of Hell (AKA Crowley Himself) didn't know any better he'd say the angel was trying to say he was happy for him. "I know that suffering has been a part of your existence for too protracted a time. Perhaps this will ease your transition."

Crowley stared into the leaping flames of the open fireplace. "Transition into what?" he asked.

"Into a servant of Heaven," Castiel said.

Crowley instantly darkened at this, his good mood shot down. The flames seemed to rise with his ire, a smouldering darkness that had no room for argument left. "If I were you, I'd forget running down that hill, mate," Crowley warned him. "I'm not so stupid to think serving in Heaven is better than ruling in Hell."

"You are not a demon," Castiel reminded him.

"Really, Castiel, being a racist bigot is hardly becoming for an angel of the Lord." Crowley smirked at Castiel's growing discomfort. "Did you honestly think I was going to convert to your way of thinking? That I was going to ask for a romp in that old, overgrown garden with its weeds and poison oak and rotten apples strewn everywhere? Give me some credit. Hell will always be my true home. You've been nothing to me but a footnote."

Castiel towered over him and Crowley felt his mouth go dry. The power the angel had absolutely emenated from him, a pulsing, steady line of will that refused to abate, one that Crowley knew could easily turn him into so much hamburger with a snap of his fingers. It was a bit of thrill, really, winding him up like this. He had to wonder, how far could he tempt Castiel's ire before the angel finally succumbed and let the King of Hell have it. Castiel leaned closer, so close his lips touched Crowley's ear and damn if he didn't smell like that beautiful, peaceful ocean outside, all cleanliness and air and powerful, roaring strength...

"You clung to me at your darkest moment," Castiel reminded him. "Do not forget that."

A brief breeze, carried in on Heaven's wings, and Castiel was gone, leaving Crowley alone in his new house, every door closed. He clenched his fists, his eyes squeezed shut against the flames in the open fireplace. He knew all he had to do was ask and Castiel would return. He understood, now, that there were going to be times that the angel's company wasn't going to just be appreciated, it was going to be necessary for his own sanity. Serious barriers had been breached and the more he thought on it, the more he realized he was the one who had done it. He'd allowed an angel to brood in Hell because he'd felt sorry for him. A proper demon never would have offered such a gift. The pain he'd suffered, the contract he'd drawn with Daniel being destroyed, it had all been his own damned fault.

"Bullocks," he said, to no one.

He opened his eyes and stared into the flames, his mood more thoughtful than hateful, his usual passion for the furnace somewhat dampened. This was a dangerous prospect. It was going to make his role in Hell all the more difficult.

A slow smile began to grow at this, one full of malice and evil contentment. 

Of course, this little problem did make him suffer and if there's one thing the angel Daniel was right about it was that a suffering man makes his object of torment feel every shred of it and more. Being a martyr had made his job easy, but there was a certain lack in his efforts, and the more he thought on it, the more he knew it had to do with the complete lack of empathy he'd been given in life. Castiel foisting it on him as he did gave him a more complete understanding, and with this a new way to exploit it. There was a whole avenue of misery open to him that hadn't been there before. After all, pain was easy, and trust issues were always fraught with sharp little edges of doubt and frankly playing the two notes against a person was becoming too routine in his torture sessions. Hearts, those were the thing, they were fragile, made of broken glass, and he'd certainly swallowed his fair share of them in the last day or so.

He sighed, filled with an anticipatory eagerness he hadn't felt in over a hundred years. 

"Thank you, Castiel," he said, and the flames seemed to leap in response.

He knew what he needed. Another cold scotch on the rocks. 

Now that was the proper way to end a perfect evening.


End file.
